


Of Violets and Vigilance (or The Indelible Tale of the Spy and the Nurse)

by RockSaltAndRoll



Series: Espionage and Omens [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Courtship, F/F, Kissing, Pre-War, Sex, Slow Romance, WWII, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21617464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltAndRoll/pseuds/RockSaltAndRoll
Summary: Pre 'On Espionage and Prophecy'.Set in 1939, before the outbreak of war with Germany. Eleanor Beezle is part of a team working for Britain's Security Service- a network of spies hunting down threats to the country on home soil.When her Division Leader is killed, Beezle needs to track down the last person he had contact with before he died - a nurse at the Royal London Hospital. Bee believes that Violet Rutherford may hold valuable information of the Fifth Column...but Violet is not what she expected.
Relationships: Bee/Violet, Beelzebub (Good Omens)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Espionage and Omens [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557973
Comments: 202
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1

**March 1939**

It had all gone horribly wrong.

The world was getting more dangerous by the day. It had been one thing when the only real enemy on home soil was the IRA but now Britain’s Security Service was seeing more activity from Nazi sympathisers. War was brewing in Europe and it was becoming increasingly apparent that soon, England would be joining the fray and there were a great many British nationals who actually agreed with Hitler and his ideologies.

It had been a stroke of luck more than anything else – coming across a list of potential fifth columnists within London. Some of the names were people of little consequence and others…well, they were people with power and influence; people that the Security Service would have to keep a close eye on.

And then the luck had run out. All it had taken was one word to the wrong person and the whole thing was set to topple like a house of cards. He hadn’t expected the knife to come from one of their own.

The Security Service agent ran out onto the street, clutching his side with one hand and clutching a bloody envelope with the other. It was painful to move, but he had to – had to keep going through the quiet mid-afternoon Whitechapel streets; had to make it to somewhere busy where he could safely contact his people. He refused to glance over his shoulder.

It wasn’t long before he realised he wasn’t going to make it. A trail of blood followed him; dripping slowly through his fingers and he could taste it in his mouth; could feel it bubbling up through his lungs with every breath he took. The knife had punctured a lung and likely nicked his spleen – he wasn’t going to make it back to HQ, and he doubted he’d survive this even if he made it to the nearest hospital, but it was his only choice.

He stumbled on, towards Cavell Street where several nurses and doctors were taking their breaks in the watery spring sunshine, walking or sitting on benches; chatting and feeding the pigeons. He could feel his vision going; darkness closing in around the edges and narrowing his vision. Every breath was pure agony now; blood frothing at his mouth as he continued to put one foot in front of the other until he couldn’t anymore.

Falling, he felt arms catch him and gentle hands on his face; lifting back his eyelids.

_“Hello?”_

A woman’s voice – sweet and soft.

_“Hello, can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?”_

He couldn’t. He could barely breathe now; his lungs full of blood. A face appeared above him with a halo of golden curls and piercing green eyes that looked at him in concern. He could hear her calling for help – for a doctor; for a stretcher…but they would be too late. Slowly, he lifted the hand that contained the bloodied envelope.

“For…Bee…” he managed to croak.

The woman looked at him again as he pressed the envelope into her hands.

“No,” she murmured; trying to push it back. “No, you just hold on, do you hear me? We’re getting you a stretcher…”

But he couldn’t hold on. It didn’t even hurt anymore as he looked into the face of this angel, her hand holding his as the last of his life bled through his fingers. It was up to Bee now.

____

Violet Rutherford was no stranger to death, but even she had to admit this one shook her a little. A person dying in the hospital was one thing, but this man had come out of nowhere – ashen-faced and bleeding profusely from a wound in his side. Violet had done everything she possibly could to help but he’d lost too much blood and his life had slipped away as Violet held him in her arms.

She was covered in blood – it stained her white apron and dried brown on her hands as she was escorted back into Whitechapel’s Royal London hospital and herded into the nurses’ quarters.

“We need to get you cleaned up before matron sees,” muttered her friend, Irene.

Violet watched as Irene dragged out a fresh apron and began to fill a sink with water. It was only then that Violet remembered she was still clutching the envelope the dying man had thrust into her hands. It was smeared with her own bloody fingerprints and Violet hastily stashed in into the pocket of her dress before Irene rounded on her.

With help, Violet stripped off her apron and washed the blood from her hands, scrubbing her fingernails thoroughly. Matron was unlikely to go easy on cleanliness just because a man had unexpectedly died on her.

“Who was he, do you think?” asked Irene; pushing an errant strand of strawberry hair from her face.

“I don’t know,” murmured Violet.

He had been a smartly-dressed gentleman with brown hair and a tidy moustache, but otherwise perfectly ordinary. Violet remembered how he had pressed the note into her hands had whispered ‘ _for Bee_ ’. She wondered if Bee was the name of his wife and if the note was for her.

She picked up her clean apron as she watched Irene crack open a window to light a cigarette.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Irene said, blowing a long plume of smoke from her nose like a dragon, “but in a way, I envy you – not the dying man thing, you understand; just the fact that this gets you out of work for the rest of the day.”

Violet fixed her friend with a withering look.

“Oh, yeah…thrilling afternoon I’m going to have,” Violet muttered, darkly. “I’ll be in Matron’s office being quizzed over and over by the police about the whole incident. Matron will probably want her own rendition of events too.”

Tying her apron at the back, Violet sighed and checked her reflection in the mirror. There was a fleck of blood on her cheek and she licked her thumb, swiping it across the spot to wipe it off. Thankfully, her hair and dress had escaped the bloodbath and she was presentable enough to make her way to Matron’s office. Violet smoothed down her skirt and heard the faint crinkle of paper in her dress pocket.

Stealing a glance at Irene and satisfied that her friend was occupied with blowing smoke rings out of the open window, Violet took out the bloodied envelope and carefully unfolded it. What she’d at first believed to be a note to the victim’s wife was instead a list of names. Violet frowned as she recognised a couple as rather prominent society members, and she hastily refolded it and stuffed it in her pocket.

‘ _For Bee_ ’, the victim had said. Violet wondered who exactly ‘Bee’ was and why a list of names was so important to the dying man that he’d made a conscious effort to pass it to somebody.

As expected, Violet was questioned for several hours by the police, who wanted to know everything – what direction the victim had come from, how he’d come into contact with Violet, if he’d said anything. She didn’t tell them about the note. Violet’s gut reaction was to keep that to herself for the time being, although she couldn’t really put her finger on why.

Eventually, the police left evidently satisfied with Violet’s responses. Matron poured her a small glass of sherry.

“How are you feeling, nurse Rutherford?”

Violet accepted the sherry and gave it a tentative sip.

“It’s not the first time I’ve had a man die in my arms, Matron,” she murmured.

This wasn’t the first time Violet had been called to Matron’s office either, although it was possibly the first time she wasn’t there for insubordination. Violet was an excellent nurse, but she had a rebellious streak that had found her in trouble more than a handful of times. Luckily, Matron seemed to have a soft spot for her.

“Perhaps not,” Matron replied, “but this was an unexpected death, off hospital premises. I’m impressed with the way you handled the situation.”

“Thank you, Matron,” Violet replied, quietly.

Suddenly, Violet felt drained. She drank the rest of her sherry in a swift gulp and handed the tiny glass back to Matron.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Matron said with a small smile. “Go home, Nurse Rutherford – you deserve it.”

“Thank you, Matron,” she murmured, again; standing up and hurrying from the office before Matron changed her mind.

What Violet needed was a long hot bath and several alcoholic drinks to take her mind off the mysterious man and his peculiar note meant for Bee.

____

Two figures stood over the pale, lifeless corpse that looked sickeningly grey in the cold light of the hospital morgue. The woman was small and largely androgynous – black hair cut short and dressed in slacks and jacket that wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary on a man; dark eyes studying the knife wound on the corpse’s side. The man next to her was taller with hair the colour of straw; pale eyes and wearing a beige mackintosh that had seen better days. Neither of them looked remarkable in any way, but both were agents of His Majesty’s Security Service.

Raziel was dead. Division H had known it when their chief had failed to turn up after the meeting he’d scheduled with his informant, and all it took was for Dagon to make a few phone calls before they found out about the stabbing victim that turned up at the London hospital earlier that day.

Eleanor Beezle was acting Division Chief now and she was still reeling from her boss’s untimely death. Of course, she’d had to make sure the body was certainly Raziel’s – making the trip to the morgue at the Royal London and listening to the attendant’s tale of how Raziel had collapsed and died just outside of the hospital. She'd slipped him ten bob to get lost for fifteen minutes.

“Poor bugger,” muttered Hastur as they both looked at the precise stab wounds on Raziel’s greying skin. “Whoever it was got him good.”

Beezle nodded in agreement. Raziel had drowned in his own blood trying to flee his attacker, and had made it as far as Guy’s before succumbing to his injuries. She wondered if Raziel had acquired the information he’d been after.

“Did you find anything in his clothes?”

“No,” replied Hastur. “Nothing he didn’t leave the office with anyway.”

“Damn,” Bee muttered.

Raziel had died for nothing…unless…

“The mortuary attendant mentioned a nurse who was with him when he died,” Beezle said, suddenly. “We should talk to her.”

Hastur grunted.

“She’s been in with the police all afternoon,” he replied. “Violet Rutherford, her name is – word around the hospital is that the Matron is sending her home.”

“Get Dagon to check her out,” murmured Beezle as she covered Raziel back up with the starched white sheet. “We’ll pay her a visit.”

Hastur nodded in agreement. They were both silent as they left the morgue and made their way back through the London’s labyrinthine corridors. Raziel had been a good Division Chief, and he’d be missed but they couldn’t stop to mourn him now. The country teetered on the brink of war and a new threat was emerging in the shadows. That’s where Beezle worked – where they all worked, and damn it, Division H were _good_ at it. They needed to finish what Raziel had started.

____

Violet had been glad to get home. A few years ago, it was unheard of for nurses to live out on their own, but when the rules changed, Violet had been one of the first to move out of the nurse’s accommodation and into her own flat. It wasn’t much – a poky little place in the better end of Whitechapel with draughty windows, but it was hers. It was better than the nurses’ home and it’s restrictions and rules. At least here, Violet was free to be herself.

She had filled her tin bathtub with hot water from the kettle, and poured herself a generous measure of gin to sip as she lay back and relaxed. Or…at least Violet tried to relax. It was difficult when every time she closed her eyes, she saw the mysterious moustachioed man pressing that envelope into her hand as he took his dying breath. Violet wondered what that list was all about and who it was for. More importantly, she wondered what had stopped her mentioning it to the police.

A knock at her front door made Violet start, sloshing cooling water over the sides of her bathtub. Glancing at the clock on the mantle, Violet realised it was only early evening. She wondered if it was Irene come to check on her, or maybe another of her friends and she sighed as the knock came again. Hauling herself out of the bathtub, Violet reached for a towel and hastily wrapped it around herself, her bare feet leaving a wet trail across the wooden floorboards as she made her way to the door and wrenched it open.

The woman on the other side could have been likened to Marlene Dietrich…if Marlene Dietrich was small, black-haired, and incredibly pissed off. Violet’s green eyes took in the wide-legged tan slacks and the open-necked shirt just visible beneath the brown herringbone jacket; the short, lightly curled black hair and dark eyes that widened considerably upon realising Violet was wrapped in a towel that left very little to the imagination.

“Can I help you?” Violet asked, politely; pulling her towel a little tighter around her breasts.

Marlene Dietrich didn’t quite know where to look; dark brown eyes moving from Violet’s face to her barely-concealed body; eventually settling on a spot near Violet’s bare feet.

“I’m…looking for Violet Rutherford,” the woman said, gruffly.

“That’s me,” replied Violet.

She was well aware of the thinness of her towel and the way it was beginning to cling to her body as it soaked up the bathwater from her skin. Violet edged slightly behind the door in a vain attempt to preserve a modicum of modesty.

“My name is Eleanor Beezle,” the woman replied, still refusing to meet Violet’s eye as she handed over a folded identification card. “I’m from the British Security Service – I’d like to talk to you about the stabbing victim today at the London.”

Still partially concealed by the door, Violet reached out to take the card, frowning at the official stamp over the woman’s photograph.

“I don’t understand,” Violet said, handing it back. “I already talked to the police…”

“I’m separate from the police,” Miss Beezle interrupted. “If I’m honest, the police don’t know their arses from their elbows – the only reason they were called and not us is because…”

She trailed off, a small hand reaching up to rub the back of her neck self-consciously. Whatever Miss Beezle had been about to say, she’d obviously thought better of it and now stood shifting awkwardly in the draughty corridor. Violet could feel the gooseflesh raise on her skin from the cold and she longed to be back beside the heater.

“Would you care to come inside?” Violet asked.

Miss Beezle’s dark eyes finally lifted from the floor as she looked Violet in the eye, inhaling deeply.

“Yes, I think that might be best.”

Violet smirked and opened her door wide, ushering her guest inside. When she’d left the London earlier in the day, she’d fully expected to spend the rest of the day alone with a bottle of gin. The last thing she’d considered was a second interrogation by such an interesting-looking woman as this. Of all the trying things that had happened today, this was definitely one of the brighter moments. Violet was quite looking forward to it.

____

  
  


It was hard not to watch Violet Rutherford as she retreated back into her flat, leaving Bee to close the door behind her. The towel was practically soaked through, clinging to the curve of her hips and her thighs; the outline of ample buttocks clearly visible through the sodden fabric. Bee looked very deliberately at the floor again.

The last thing Bee had expected when she’d taken the task of investigating the nurse was to find the woman in question opening the door practically naked – golden hair piled high on her head with loose tendrils clinging to the damp skin of her neck; a flush across her neck and chest; water droplets on her arms and legs glistening in the low light. 

“I’ve evidently disturbed you,” Bee stated as she closed the door behind her.

“It’s fine,” replied Violet Rutherford. “It was only a bath. Do you mind if I…put something else on?”

Bee glanced up to find Violet still clutching the towel closed; keen green eyes watching Bee expectantly. It was all Bee could do but nod in acknowledgement and watch the nurse disappear behind a screen.

Taking a deep breath, Bee looked around her; dark eyes surveying the small room. It wasn’t much – one single room that housed everything; a bed with a dressing screen in the corner; a square table with a couple of chairs on the other side; a sink and a bench that housed a small electric hot plate for cooking; the cramped tin bathtub in the middle in front of an electric heater. Somehow, Bee had expected more luxurious quarters for a nurse.

She looked up sharply as a flash of powder blue satin caught her eye. Violet had re-emerged from behind the screen wearing a satin nightgown with capped sleeves; shaking down her golden hair so that it cascaded around her shoulders in soft waves. 

“So,” said Violet, scooping up a glass of gin from the floor and cradling it in her hand before turning her attention back to the Security Service agent still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Please forgive my ignorance, but what the Hell is the British Security Service? I’ve never heard of it.”

Eleanor Beezle mentally shook herself and pulled out a chair, leaning heavily on the back as she attempted to regain some composure.

“We’re part of the country’s intelligence agencies,” Bee explained. “Our job is to deal seek out information and thwart any attacks on the government or the people of the United Kingdom on our own soil.”

It was a rehearsed response and it made Bee cringe to hear herself say it. Violet took a delicate sip of her gin; sharp green eyes watching Beezle with immense interest over the rim of her glass.

“Definitely not police, then.”

Bee shook her head.

“No.”

Violet Rutherford tapped a slim finger gently against her glass, still watching Beezle like she was trying to figure Bee out. Those green eyes seemed to want to pierce her skin and see right down to her very soul and Beezle could feel her face heating again.

“Are there many women in your line of work?” she asked, lightly.

Beezle blinked, surprised at the question.

“You’d be surprised.”

Violet Rutherford’s full lips quirked up at the corner.

“Well, isn’t that fascinating,” she said quietly. Bee watched as she took another sip of gin and then clear her throat, pulling out a second chair and sliding gracefully into it with a swish of blue satin. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Bee swallowed hard as she watched Violet toss her golden curls back over her shoulder and casually balance her elbow on the back of the chair; cradling her glass gently.

“The man that was killed today,” Bee replied, “he was Security Service – my boss, actually.”

Violet blinked. “Oh,” she murmured.

The Division had discussed the game play – Beezle’s main aim was to find out if Raziel had said anything before he died, or maybe given her something. 

“Before I continue, I must warn you that from this moment onwards you’re bound by the Official Secrets Act – if you repeat any of our conversation to anybody else, you will be thrown in jail.”

Violet blinked again and took a small sip of her gin.

“That sounds very serious.”

“It is,” Bee said. “This country is on the brink of war with Germany and there are people here – in England…in London…who are plotting to conspire against His Majesty’s Government; to weaken us from the inside. Raziel was meeting a contact this morning, somebody who was going to give him names. Somewhere along the way, he was stabbed and he made it to the Royal London – to you. I need to know if he said anything to you, or gave you anything. I need to know if he got those names.”

Violet Rutherford had listened to her with an unreadable expression, but suddenly her face changed; eyes lighting up with realisation.

“Beezle,” she murmured to herself. “Bee…”

Beezle stood up straight, attentive as Violet slid her glass onto the table and hurried to the corner of the room where her nurse’s uniform lay crumpled on the floor. She watched as Violet picked it up and dug her hand into the pocket, pulling out a bloodied envelope.

“’ _For Bee_ ’, he said,” Violet continued as she crossed the bare floorboards and back over to Beezle. “I thought…maybe it was for his wife, but…”

She handed it over and Beezle’s blood pounded in her ears as she noticed the smudged fingerprints on the brown envelope; too small to be Raziel’s. Carefully, Bee opened the envelope and unfolded the note inside; her dark eyes scanning the paper.

Raziel had done it – he’d met his contact and got the list of potential fifth columnists for H Division to investigate. If somebody had got to him, then maybe somebody had got to the contact too. She’d have to get Ligur and Hastur onto it…

“Did you read this?” she asked, suddenly.

A flash of guilt passed over Violet’s face. “Like I said,” the nurse murmured, “I thought it was a letter for his wife.”

There were some recognisable names on the list; names that Violet Rutherford was better off not knowing. Too late now.

“Did you tell the police about this?”

“No,” replied Violet. “He said the note was for Bee – I didn’t want to give it to anybody it wasn’t intended for.”

Beezle was glad Violet Rutherford had that kind of common sense at least. She stuffed the paper into her jacket pocket and ran a hand through her hair.

“Good,” she said, quietly. “I…should go. Just…remember what I said.”

Violet Rutherford smiled at her. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Beezle nodded and turned to leave, casting one last look over her shoulder at Violet before she walked out of the door. Perhaps it would be a good idea to invest in the safety and wellbeing of this nurse, Bee thought. Just to be on the safe side.

____

  
  


Violet watched Eleanor Beezle exit her flat; dark eyes glinting as she looked back.

That had been…intense. Eleanor Beezle had been intense – small and dark and serious; eyes that found it hard to meet hers. Violet had noticed the way Miss Bee had tried not to stare at her bared skin; how she had blushed and shifted awkwardly. God may damn her, but Violet had liked having those dark eyes looking at her bare skin, even if Beezle had been too polite to stare; only watching Violet in stolen glances.

She sighed and shook her head, picking up her gin glass and draining it in one gulp; feeling the burn in her throat. It had obviously been far too long since any woman had looked at her like that and she was letting it go to her head. It was a shame that she’d likely never see Miss Bee again. Violet fancied that she’d rather like to get to know that one better.


	2. Chapter 2

Beezle splashed cold water on her face and reached for a ragged towel, patting her cheeks dry as she looked into the mirror over the chipped sink in the corner of her room. It had been two weeks since Raziel’s death and Bee was no closer to finding out who killed him. In just over an hour she’d be attending his funeral with the rest of the Division, standing in the same room as Raziel’s family and having no answers for them. She was dreading it.

Standing in her underwear, Bee selected a shirt, a tie, and her best black pin-stripe suit; laying them all carefully on her bed. For a brief moment, she wondered if appearing in men’s clothes to a funeral would offend anyone, and then she realised that she didn’t care. Raziel had never given a damn what Bee wore and she was sure the sentiment would carry on after death. She’d never felt comfortable in typically feminine clothing anyway, and she was pleased that slacks were becoming more popular in recent years.

The suit was her favourite – she’d had the trousers taken up considerably, and the waistcoat and jacket had been tailored by a seamstress to her exact measurements. Bee wasn’t exactly feminine-shaped either, sporting the boyish figure that would have been enviable in the twenties but not so much in the late 1930s where curves were more desirable. Small shoulders and lack of height had made it difficult to find good clothes that fit, but Bee had found a gem of a seamstress who had never once judged Beezle’s lack of femininity or choice of attire.

She fastened her tie and buttoned up her waistcoat before glancing in the mirror to deal with her hair. Bee preferred her hair short and easy to manage, lightly waved and falling to her cheekbones. All it took was a little bit of teasing and she was ready to go; admiring her reflection with a satisfied nod as she shimmied into her jacket.

The funeral service was across the city and Beezle took the tube with London’s other commuters to Aldgate, walking the last ten minutes to the church. Bee had never liked churches much – they tended to be cold and draughty and full of miserable and depressing art and sculptures. At least there was a decent turnout – Raziel had a large family and a wide pool of friends, including his Division.

They had been together for years – Beezle, Hastur, Ligur, Dagon, and Raziel – transitioning from investigating terrorist activities from the IRA to becoming the first team to investigate the possible upcoming Nazi threat. They were a group of misfits with specific skills and they worked so well together.

Dagon was already sniffling into her handkerchief when Bee arrived; her pale eyes red-rimmed and Ligur awkwardly patting her on the shoulder.

“Pull yourself together,” Bee murmured, not unkindly.

“Sorry,” sniffled Dagon. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me – I was fine until I got here.”

“Bloody funerals,” Hastur muttered.

Ligur nodded in agreement.

Dagon blew her nose loudly and stuffed her handkerchief into the pocket of her tweed jacket; blinking away tears and standing up straighter. They had all been working flat out to find the person responsible for killing Raziel and there had been no time to mourn their colleague in the last two weeks. Bee supposed it had all just caught up with Dagon the moment she’d stepped into the church.

“That nurse is here,” said Ligur, quietly; nudging Beezle’s shoulder with his arm.

Bee looked up and found herself staring into the sharp green eyes of Violet Rutherford. She was standing alone, a few pews in front on the other side of the church; neat golden curls cascading over the shoulders of her jacket. Immediately, Bee felt heat rise to her face as she remembered the last time she’d seen the nurse – fresh out of he bath and wearing only a towel that clung to every wet curve of her body.

“Pretty…” Ligur murmured.

Beezle gave a non-committal hum in response.

The woman was bloody gorgeous and Bee would have been blind not to notice. Even the sombre navy dress Violet wore accentuated her figure; the sun filtering through the stained glass windows highlighting the gold in her hair.

Violet gave Bee a small, almost coy smile from the other side of the church before looking away and opening her hymnal; flipping the pages, casually. Heart pounding and feeling a little breathless, Bee looked at her feet. This was all terribly inconvenient. Beezle just didn’t have the time for this shit – for pretty women and attraction and her treacherous heart that refused to slow down even as the funeral service started. It was the last thing she needed when there was so much work to do and so much at stake.

____

The service had been lovely.

It had been nothing short of coincidence that the Security Service agent’s funeral had fallen on Violet’s first day off in a fortnight. Normally, she would have taken the opportunity to sleep as long as possible before taking herself for a walk, or shopping on Oxford Street, but from the moment she’d seen the funeral announcement in the newspaper, Violet had known this was the only place she had to be.

She hadn’t minded standing on her own during the service. It had been a while since she’d set foot in a church; her weekly attendance having dropped considerably since moving out of the nurse’s accommodation. Yet another bonus of living out on her own. Violet had even been pleasantly surprised to see Miss Bee at the funeral.

The Security Service agent had definitely entered Violet’s thoughts over the last couple of weeks. Bee’s seriousness and dark eyes had piqued Violet’s interest from the moment she’d opened her front door, and she had spent an extraordinary amount of time recalling the way Miss Beezle had looked at her; how she had stared at Violet’s bare skin and at the wet towel clinging to her body; how those dark eyes had torn themselves away respectfully as a blush had risen to Bee’s face. It had given Violet the most delightful shivers which had reemerged the moment she’d locked eyes with her in the church.

It might have been inappropriate for a funeral, but Violet had felt a secret thrill at seeing Beezle blush again and look away; feeling Miss Bee’s eyes on her all throughout the service.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Violet turned around in the churchyard to find the woman in question standing before her, hands deep in the pockets of her well-tailored trousers. The suit looked good on her.

“I thought paying my respects was the least I could do,” Violet said, quietly.

Beezle looked at her for a long moment before her gaze softened and she looked at the ground again, toes absently kicking at a tuft of moss.

“Thank you,” she replied.

 _Still so serious_ , thought Violet. What she wouldn’t give to make this woman smile.

She watched as Beezle tried not to look at her; dark eyes fixed on the ground as she inhaled sharply, as though about to say something before thinking better of it. They could be here all day if Violet waited for her to make up her mind.

“Was that all you wanted?” Violet pressed, gently.

Beezle looked up, a look of slight panic in her eyes.

“Er…well…”

“Only,” Violet continued, “I was about to go find somewhere to sit and have a cup of tea, if you’d like to join me.”

Bee blinked at her and then cast a glance over her shoulder at the group of people she’d been standing with at the funeral. For a moment, Violet was sure Beezle would decline, her disappointment already bubbling up to the surface when Bee turned back.

“Yeah,” murmured Bee. “I would like that.”

Violet felt herself light up like Christmas, beaming happily as Beezle blushed again and fell into step by Violet’s side as they began to make their way from the church. Violet noticed she was taller by a few inches, unsure if it was due to the height of her heels or not. It didn’t matter, and she smiled to herself as Bee’s arm brushed hers as they walked.

“You don’t…have to get back to work?” Bee asked her, quietly.

“No,” Violet replied. “It’s my day off.”

Beezle glanced at her, raising dark brows in surprise.

“And you came to the funeral of a man you didn’t even know?”

Violet shrugged.

“I held him as he died,” she explained. “In a way, I feel I did know him, even if it was just for a few minutes.”

Beezle looked at her feet again as they continued to walk.

“I’m…” Bee began, hesitantly, “I never thanked you for that. Raziel was a good man…a good spy, and he was betrayed. I’m just glad he found you…you know…at the end.” Beezle took a deep breath. “You seem like a nice person.”

Violet smiled and nudged Bee’s shoulder with her own.

“I’m not _that_ nice,” she jested.

They found a small tea room near Tower Hill and were seated quickly, the waitress bringing them a large pot of steaming tea and a couple of large, fluffy scones. Beezle seemed awkward handling the pot, so Violet took change with a small laugh and poured them each a cup.

“Milk?”

“Please,” murmured Beezle.

It was all very civilised, but there were questions that weighed heavily on Violet’s mind and she was a curious sort. She had to ask.

“Did you find out who killed him?”

Bee looked at her, sharply.

“No,” she replied, quietly. “We’re still looking.”

Violet nodded as she split her scone smoothly and reached for the butter.

“Do you think it was one of the people named on that list?”

Beezle’s expression suddenly darkened.

“Nurse Rutherford…”

“Violet.”

Bee blinked at her and sighed.

“Violet,” she repeated in a softer tone. “I can’t talk to you about that and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll never mention it again.”

Violet frowned.

“Because of the Official Secrets Act?”

“Because you weren’t supposed to see what was in that envelope,” hissed Bee, leaning in. “If anybody knew that you’d read it…”

“You knew,” Violet pointed out.

Bee paused and looked into her tea cup.

“And I’ll never tell a soul,” she murmured. “You need to forget whatever you saw. That knowledge stays between you and me.”

Violet nodded her assent, picking up her teacup and bringing it to her lips. She wondered why Beezle hadn’t reported it to somebody; why she’d chosen to let Violet wander free with knowledge of what was written in that paper instead of having her locked up.

“Alright,” conceded Violet. 

They sat silently for a moment and Violet sipped her tea, wishing she hadn’t brought it up. Miss Bee was just so…mysterious. It radiated from her – the competence; they way she didn’t seem to give a fuck that people stared at her as she walked down a street; how even men hurried to move out of her way. Those dark eyes saw everything, and yet…had a hard time looking at anything but Violet. Beezle fascinated her beyond reason and Violet wanted to know more.

“So…” Bee said eventually, looking up from the silver spoon in her hands, “how long have you been a nurse?”

Violet almost breathed a sigh of relief and smiled as she set her cup back in the saucer. Bee watched her movements almost cautiously.

“Ten years,” replied Violet.

This sparked surprise in Beezle – the creases in her forehead smoothing out as her eyebrows shot up.

“Ten years?” Bee repeated. “How have you not made Sister yet?”

Violet grinned.

“Oh, they only give Sister to good girls.”

Bee blinked.

“You seem like a good girl to me,” she replied, quietly.

Violet laughed and Beezle blushed. God, but Violet was already beginning to love the way the colour rose to Bee’s pale cheeks every time she attempted a compliment.

“I told you I’m not as nice as I look,” Violet said. “I’m…what Matron would call a troublemaker,” she explained. “I’ve been on report for the way I wear my hair and for forgetting to take off my nail polish after my day off; for doing impressions of some of the more awful Ward Sisters at the London. My worst trait is talking back to doctors.”

If Violet was not completely mistaken, she saw the corner of Bee’s mouth quirk upwards for a split second. Did that count as a smile?

“Scandalous,” Beezle murmured.

“I know!” whispered Violet; grinning. “Apparently, I’m rebellious.”

“However do you manage to avoid being sacked?”

“Because I’m a bloody excellent nurse,” Violet replied.

It was true. Violet had what Matron called ‘a natural talent for the vocation’. She was smart and efficient and a fast learner, but more than that, Violet could find an affinity with almost every patient and adapted her nursing style to them. Matron wouldn’t let her go because there were very few nurses like Violet.

Beezle looked at her teacup, a definite ghost of a smile playing on her lips.

“I believe that,” she said, softly. “Was it something you always wanted to do?”

Violet scoffed.

“Hell, no. If I’m honest, going into nursing was just…the best solution I had to a problem I couldn’t find another way out of. It was just pure dumb luck that I’m good at it.”

Beezle’s brow creased into a frown again.

“What kind of problem?” she asked.

Violet looked at her, steadily.

“The marriage problem,” she replied, quietly. “There’s really only two ways a middle class girl can avoid that in her life – join a convent or become a nurse, and if we’re honest, nuns still end up ‘married to God’.”

She trailed off with Bee’s dark eyes studying her carefully.

“Marriage just not for you?”

“Actually, I’d love to get married at some point in my life,” Violet murmured, “just not to any man.”

Violet had known very young that she had no attraction to men whatsoever. What fascinated her was the softness of women’s hands; the delicate wrists; the curve of their throat. She had experimented with school friends, but where they all had little interest past practice for their future husbands, Violet had been excited by it – the feel of soft lips against her own; of silky hair between her fingers; the swell of a small, firm breast against her hand.

Across the table, Eleanor Beezle swallowed visibly.

“Maybe they’ll let us do that one day,” Bee replied.

Violet smiled because she knew exactly what Bee meant – one day, maybe they would let people like them get married. They were the same, she and Miss Bee and they were both aware of it now.

“Hopefully,” Violet whispered.

____

Beezle had never been the type to just sit and have tea. If she was honest, prior to this moment, she would have considered it one of her worst nightmares, but damn it, she _liked_ Violet Rutherford and she liked sitting and talking to her. It had been tense at first with Beezle so nervous of putting a foot wrong. She had never found it easy to talk to people – most found her rude or abrupt, and she didn’t want to leave that kind of impression on Violet. Whatever happened, she wanted this woman to think well of her.

“So, how long have you been doing this?” Violet asked as they walked along Embankment in the early spring sunshine.

They had finished their tea and scones, and Violet had asked Bee to escort her to the nearest tube station. Admittedly, they had passed more than one station on their walk, but neither of them had brought up this fact. It had been such a long time since Bee had allowed herself to enjoy somebody’s company and Violet seemed to be enjoying hers just as much, although Bee couldn’t figure out why.

Bee was coarse and rough-edged where Violet was soft and pretty and sweet. They were as different as night and day, and yet Bee couldn’t ignore the air between them as they walked together.

“A while,” said Bee with a shrug.

Violet laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“Do you always evade questions like that?”

Bee felt a smile tug at her lips, despite herself.

“I guess I do,” she admitted. “I don’t really like talking about myself and…there are too many things I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to.”

“Understandable,” Violet replied, softly.

They stopped walking as they approached London Bridge and Bee watched as Violet leaned over the railing and into the murky depths of the Thames. She was possibly the most beautiful woman Bee had ever seen close up – with those sparkling green eyes and that golden hair that caught the sunlight as she moved; red lips, so full and soft that could curve into the dirtiest smirk imaginable. What Beezle wouldn’t have given to bury her face at the base of Violet’s throat and breathe her in; to press her lips to that creamy skin…

It didn’t do to think that way. There was too much to do – Raziel’s killer to find; a whole Nazi plot to unravel. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by this kind of thing.

“Tell me one thing,” Violet said suddenly, breaking into Bee’s thoughts with a dazzling smile that set her pulse racing. “Just one real thing about you - anything at all.”

Beezle didn’t think Violet really would want to know anything real about her. She wasn’t like normal people, and she certainly wasn’t ‘nice’. Violet would probably be horrified to know how Beezle’s life was governed by secrets and violence; that Bee had killed people and violently interrogated others on behalf of the British government for almost eleven years. She didn’t have anything outside of the security service.

“I…” Bee began, hesitantly, “I’ve been with the Security Service for about the same time you’ve been nursing. It’s not something I ever thought I’d be doing but I’m good at it.”

Violet smiled at her.

“It seems like a very demanding career.”

“It’s dangerous,” Bee countered, “and it makes it hard to get close to anybody.”

Sharp green eyes studied her for a moment as Big Ben chimed the hour, loud and booming beyond the bridge. Bee had been in Violet’s company for the last two hours and she realised with a heavy heart that it was going to have to come to an end.

“I should be getting back,” Bee muttered, pushing herself away from the railing.

Violet moved with her, a delicate hand reaching out to grasp the sleeve of Bee’s jacket.

“Can I see you again?” she asked.

God, but Bee would have given anything to say yes. She wanted very much to see this woman again, to spend time with her and get to know her better…

Perhaps if life wasn’t so complicated for her, she could let it happen. Violet looked at her expectantly and Bee hated to dash her hopes, but it was best to do it now while they barely knew each other.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” replied Beezle, quietly.

Violet frowned.

“Why not?”

Beezle sighed and ran a hand through her hair, absently.

“I’m no good for somebody like you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I do,” Bee said, firmly. “I’m not nice, Violet. You deserve somebody nice.”

Violet opened her mouth to protest, but Beezle couldn’t let herself be talked into this. There was too much at stake and Bee had a lot to prove. This couldn’t happen.

“Thank you,” added Bee as she started to back away, “for coming to Raziel’s funeral, but forget you ever met me.”

The breeze tugged at Violet’s golden curls and they streamed out behind her as Bee cast one last look over her shoulder, her stomach like lead as she saw Violet’s frown and the hurt in her green eyes. It was for the best, Bee told herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everybody who decided to follow this little love story, and for your kudos and comments and encouragement. I love you all <3


	3. Chapter 3

**May 1939**

It had taken two whole months to track down Raziel’s murderer. Two months of ceaseless hunting – of Dagon poring over files and papers; of Hastur and Ligur watching and waiting; of Beezle using her fists and quite often a knife to extract information from people. It had taken them all so much hard work to finally get this close.

They had discovered their murderer was a low-level civil servant with ties to Nazi sympathisers. He was essentially a nobody; a person hired to do one job – stop those Fifth Columnist names from falling into security service hands - and they had failed to do that. They might have killed Raziel, but he’d managed to get those names into Beezle’s hands by way of an unlikely source…

Bee shook the thought from her mind as she carefully and quietly put one foot in front of the other, a set of brass knuckles in one hand and a sharp knife in the other; Ligur coming up the stairs behind her. They had to move swiftly and silently; to catch their quarry before he ran or caused a commotion. The last thing they needed was to have attention drawn to them by the building’s residents.

She motioned to Ligur, signalling that she would enter the flat first and that he was to follow. What she wouldn’t give for a proficient lockpick at this moment – she was going to have to use muscle to get through that door. Taking a deep breath, Bee braced herself and pushed forward with her shoulder. The flimsy bolt on the other side put up very little resistance.

Bee stumbled into the room with Ligur following behind her. Her eyes scanned the room from corner to corner and found it empty but for furniture. She hissed.

“He’s not here.”

Ligur appeared at her side, following her gaze.

“Where is he then?”

Beezle scowled at him.

“If I bloody knew that, that’s where I’d be,” she growled.

He couldn’t possibly have known they were coming. The division had been careful in their pursuit; in tracking him down. Their timing was just wrong – it had to be.

“We should get back to the car,” Ligur muttered. “Find Hastur and watch the place until he comes back.”

“You’re right,” agreed Beezle.

They made their way back out of the flat and down the stairs; Bee stashing her knife back inside of her jacket as they stepped back onto the street. She was annoyed that they’d come all this way just for an empty room, that she’d steeled herself for a fight that never came. The adrenaline was leeching from her veins with every step.

Rounding the corner and heading towards the car, Beezle looked up and locked eyes with a young man with tidy brown hair and a grey suit walking towards them. He looked exactly like his picture and he halted the second he saw Bee and Ligur.

“That’s him!” she said, a little too loudly.

The man bolted. Bee took off after him, leaving Ligur in the dust.

The adrenaline kicked in again as she pursued him; heart pounding in her chest. This was both the best and the worst part of the job – the excitement and the rush of barrelling headfirst into danger; not knowing what would happen or how it would end. She had worked too hard to get to this moment, sacrificed too much to bring Raziel’s murderer to justice. Now he was in her sights, Beezle wasn’t going to let him go.

The blow came out of nowhere, taking Bee by surprise as she turned down an alley. She yelled as she was knocked to the side, catching the tail of a grey jacket as she fell. Her assailant fell with her, dragged down in Beezle’s vise-like grip. In a second, she had the upper hand, delivering a swift punch to his jaw with her closed fist.

She was blind with rage, pinning him to the ground with her body as he struggled to worm away from her; squeaking like a mouse caught in a trap. By the time she saw the flash of silver it was too late.

Beezle screamed as the knife opened up her side, splitting the fabric of her blouse as it bit through her skin; sharp pain blossoming as blood spilled from the wound. Instinctively, she let go of her attacker in order to clutch at her side and she earned a kick to the face as he scrambled up and away; his shoes echoing on the cobbles as he ran.

“Bee!”

Ligur was at her side in a second, his shoulders heaving as he sucked in oxygen from having chased her.

“I’m fine,” she gasped.

Bee looked down at her side and saw the blood spilling through her fingers, hot and sticky.

“You’re injured,” Ligur stated; his brown eyes full of concern as he tried to stem the flow of blood.

Beezle batted him away.

“I said I’m fine! Go after _him_ – he went down the alley!”

Ligur cast a doubtful look in the direction vaguely gestured by Beezle, but made no move to pursue.

“We need to get you to a hospital.”

“We need to get Raziel’s killer,” Bee shot back, giving Ligur as hard a shove as she could manage. “Go! I can deal with this myself.”

Ligur knew better than to argue further and he hauled himself to his feet, finally taking off after the grey-suited man. Alone in the dark alley, Bee hissed in pain as she dragged herself upright. Her clothes were covered in blood and she felt dizzy – she had to get treatment, and fast, but the thought of setting foot in a hospital scared her more than anything…however, Bee didn’t have any choice. 

____

Violet washed out her teacup with a sigh, checking the time on the clock. A twenty minute break just wasn’t long enough to have a decent cup of tea in this place, and the Royal London Hospital’s emergency department was heaving today. She was dreading going back out there – the most senior of four staff nurses overseeing the gaggle of probationers who barely knew a thing and needed constant support and supervision. It was enough to wear even Violet’s patience thin.

Casting one last look in the mirror to make sure her cap was on straight and her hair was neatly tucked away, Violet opened the door of the nurse’s break room and walked straight into pandemonium.

A loud crash came from one of the examining rooms and a pale-haired probationer ran out, looking completely terrified. Taking a deep breath, Violet strode over.

“What on earth is going on?” she asked.

The girl was a first-year – barely seventeen years old and obviously not used to the less charming side of nursing just yet. She had rather a nervous disposition and Violet didn’t think the girl would make it to year two of training. The probationer looked at her with wide, frightened eyes.

“She won’t let me examine her, Nurse,” the girl said. “She’s absolutely feral – she threw a bedpan at my head when I tried to get close, and screamed at me!”

Violet sighed.

“Have you started a chart for the patient yet, Probationer?” she asked, gently.

The girl shook her head.

“No, there’s just the admissions form and its only half done…”

“Go and get the paperwork together, and I’ll deal with the patient,” Violet replied, carefully taking the admissions form from her shaking probationer. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know,” the girl said, desperately. “She’s covered in blood and she just won’t let me near her…”

“Alright,” soothed Violet, “I’ll deal with that too. Did you at least get her name?”

The probationer nodded.

“Beezle,” she answered. “Eleanor Beezle.”

Violet stilled. Eleanor Beezle was a highly unusual name – definitely not one that Violet had ever come across before in her ten years of nursing. Her heart began to beat faster in her chest as she shooed her probationer away and opened the door to the treatment room.

She ducked out of the way just in time to avoid a bottle of iodine colliding with her head, hearing it smash against the wall as she looked at the terrified woman backed into the corner of the treatment room; her entire side stained red with blood and dark eyes burning like coals. It was definitely her - the intelligence agent who had stood in her flat two months earlier. Then she had been collected and serious, but here she was like a caged animal; bloodied and evidently scared.

“That’s enough now,” Violet said, gently.

Bee stared at her as Violet carefully stepped into the room, treading softly like Beezle was a feral cat. She looked wild – black hair dishevelled and face pale; blood dried to rust on both hands. She watched Violet closely.

“Do you remember me?” Violet asked. Bee nodded and Violet smiled in relief. “Good,” she murmured.

It had been a couple of months since she’d last seen Eleanor Beezle; since Violet had watched her walk away, leaving her alone on the Embankment and full of disappointment. Violet had wanted to see her again, unsatisfied with their single awkward tea together and wanting to know more about this mysterious woman, but Beezle had refused.

Slowly, Violet extended her hand.

“Will you come and sit?” she asked, softly. “We need to get that wound looked at.”

Bee stared at Violet’s hand, but didn’t move. Violet had seen this behaviour before, mostly with children afraid of the lights and the smells of the hospital. She had to tread very carefully.

“I won’t hurt you, Eleanor. I promise.”

“Bee,” Eleanor Beezle croaked, tongue darting out to wet her lips before trying again. “Everyone just calls me Bee.”

Violet gave her a gentle smile.

“Bee,” she repeated, offering her hand again. “Will you let me take a look at that wound – it looks pretty nasty from here.”

She could see Beezle trembling as she took a tentative step forward and grasped Violet’s hand, allowing herself to be led towards the examination table. Violet could feel those dark eyes on her, never leaving her face as she helped Bee up and turned away to gather supplies. The trick, Violet found, was to keep talking. Even if her patient didn't talk back, a soft voice was calming.

“Not a fan of hospitals, I take it?” Violet said, conversationally.

She filled a bowl with water and set it on a trolley along with a pack of surgical cotton and some antiseptic, scissors, and forceps.

“Not so much,” rasped Beezle.

Violet quickly washed her hands, scrubbing her fingernails briefly with the rough brush before washing the soap off and drying them on a clean towel. By the time she had turned back, Beezle’s trembling had eased.

“We need to remove your clothes so I can clean your wound and see how bad it is,” Violet gently explained, stepping in closer. “May I?”

With Beezle’s nodded permission, Violet helped her remove the brown herringbone jacket and the torn blue blouse, making soothing noises as Beezle hissed and growled in pain. The blood had dried in a crust, sticking the fabric to the wound and causing it to begin bleeding again as it was peeled away to reveal a long, deep gash.

“Ouch,” Violet said softly. “That’s going to need stitches.”

Beezle tensed, her hand shooting out to close firmly around Violet’s wrist.

“No,” she growled.

Violet pursed her lips and straightened.

“Yes,” Violet insisted. “It needs cleaned, stitched, and dressed – otherwise it’s going to get infected, cause blood poisoning, and kill you. Do you want that?”

Bee looked away, her dark eyes not quite knowing where to settle.

“No,” Beezle muttered.

Violet gave a satisfied nod and turned away again to get the trolley, halting as Bee reached out and caught her wrist again; her grip softer than before.

“Don’t leave me,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper; dark eyes filling with fear again.

Softly, Violet took both of Beezle’s hands in her own and gently squeezed.

“Not for a second.”

____

It was funny how the bulk of Beezle’s fear disappeared as she stared into those piercing green eyes and watched those soft, full lips move as Violet talked to her; reciting some tale that was designed to keep her distracted.

Bee’s vest was pushed up to just below her breasts, bunched uncomfortably as she lay on her side with a young male doctor bent over her wound; painstakingly suturing the split skin. It had hurt at first – the only thing stopping her from ripping his head off being Violet’s fingers interlinked with her own. After a few moments, Beezle felt no pain at all as Violet’s free hand gently stroked over her hair, fingertips occasionally grazing Bee’s forehead.

The skin on Violet’s hands was surprisingly rough – the product of constant hand-washing and scrubbing with harsh soap – but her touch was soothing and Bee couldn’t stop staring at her. Her heart was beating so hard and so fast, Bee thought it might burst straight from her chest.

“Alright,” the doctor mused as he snipped the suture and dropped the scissors back into the steel pan with a loud clatter that made Bee startle. “That’s all done. Nurse – please dress the patient’s wound and begin discharge paperwork.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Violet replied, softly; her eyes never leaving Beezle’s face; fingers still gently carding through black curls.

Bee stole a glance as he left the room, catching his gaze linger on Violet as he closed the door.

“He likes you,” Bee muttered, finally finding her voice.

“How nice for him,” countered Violet; unconcerned.

She was still holding Beezle’s hand; still running her fingers through Bee’s hair and Christ, Bee wanted to stay like that forever. She couldn’t remember the last time she was handled so gently or treated with such tenderness and it made her melt. Violet smiled at her.

“You know, you frightened the life out of my poor probationer,” Violet said lightly.

Bee frowned.

“Who?”

Violet’s smile widened and she slid back her chair, gently disentangling her fingers from Bee’s as she stood up.

“Probationer Grey,” explained Violet. “The small, mousy girl you hurled a bedpan at.”

Beezle was hit by a wave of guilt.

“I don’t remember doing that.”

She remembered making her way to the Royal London on her own after ordering Ligur to pursue Raziel’s killer, and she remembered the fear that settled into her bones at the smell of antiseptic and the cold green ceramic tiles. Bee only surmised that she had panicked, the shock of blood loss and pain taking her over until she’d seen Violet’s face.

“Tell her I’m sorry,” Bee muttered. “I just…hospitals make me nervous.”

“Why?” asked Violet.

Beezle watched her scrub her hands again; the harsh brush leaving her skin pink and raw before she turned back to the dressings on the trolley.

“They’re death traps,” Bee said, simply. “Everyone I’ve ever known come into one of these places has never left it – my mother; my sister…”

She trailed off as she watched Violet pick up a cotton swab with sterile forceps and dip it into yellow-brown iodine.

“This isn’t the Dark Ages anymore,” Violet replied, softly. “The London has the most advanced emergency department in the entire country, you know. Advancements are being made every single day to ensure quality of life. Did you know that they’re developing a drug from a mould that stops infection in its tracks?”

“Really?” murmured Beezle.

She winced as Violet gently swabbed her wound; the antiseptic stinging as it seeped around the edges. Violet glanced at her and gave her a small smile.

“These stitches are going to have to be kept clean and dry for the first few days, and then redressed. Now, usually they would make you an appointment to come in and get it done but…since you don’t like hospitals, I could put you down for a home visit.” Violet’s keen green eyes locked with hers as she continued, quietly. “I’m happy to come to you and do it myself.”

Beezle’s heart almost stopped at the suggestion.

The last time she’d seen Violet, she’d told the nurse to forget all about her. There had been…something there that Bee had been compelled to stop before it took root, and yet here they were again. Violet had been so forward, so direct – making Beezle understand her intentions right from the start.

They had known each other for little over a couple of hours and Bee was baffled as to why somebody like Violet Rutherford would want to see _her_ again.

“You’re tenacious,” Bee muttered.

“Yes, I am,” replied Violet with a grin.

She gently dressed Beezle’s wound, standing up and coming in close to bandage the pad in place. Bee’s mouth went dry as she caught the scent of rose coming from her skin, overwhelming the strong antiseptic smell of the room.

“Why me?” Bee found herself asking.

Violet’s hands continued to unwind the bandage as she replied.

“You fascinate me,” she murmured, “Everything about you is compelling and I want to know more.”

Beezle felt herself blush; her cheeks growing hot as Violet glanced at her again.

“I’m not the kind of person you should want to know better, Violet.”

“Don’t you think I deserve the chance to find out for myself?”

Bee fell silent as Violet finished securing the dressing and placed her hands on the examination table, either side of Beezle’s thighs; leaning in.

“You like me,” Violet whispered. “I can see it in your eyes that you like me.”

Beezle felt light-headed and breathless. Violet’s face was so close, those soft, full lips near enough that Bee could close the gap in a second. She was right – Bee _did_ like her, so much it made her dizzy.

A knock at the door made Beezle jump; sitting back hurriedly even as Violet grinned and retreated more slowly. A young girl popped her head nervously around the door.

“Nurse Rutherford?” she ventured. “I have the paperwork for the patient.”

“Excellent,” Violet replied softly.

Bee watched her turn and take the file from the probationer before returning and holding it out to Beezle, slipping a pencil from her uniform pocket.

“Here,” declared Violet. “Write down your address so I can arrange a home visit to change those dressings.”

Sharp green eyes stared her down and Bee hesitantly took the form and the pencil, scribbling down her address with a sigh. There was no going back now. She was done for.

____

Violet hummed to herself as she crossed the courtyard, heading to the gate and to home after a long day when Irene hailed her. She was sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette and she waved, grinning like a lunatic. Violet smiled and diverted her course.

“I hear you saved Probationer Grey’s life today,” called Irene, cheerfully.

Violet gave her a good-natured roll of her eyes.

“Probationer Grey is grossly exaggerating,” Violet replied.

“Not from what I hear,” said Irene. “She’s been singing your praises all afternoon, telling everybody how amazing you are for taming a wild beast.”

Violet sighed and sat down heavily on the bench next to her friend.

“My patient was not a wild beast,” Violet explained. “She was injured and scared, and she acted on a perceived threat.”

“Like a wild animal.”

“Irene…”

“Besides,” Irene continued, “who on earth would perceive Grey as a threat? Tiny, mousy little thing…”

“Your empathy astounds me,” muttered Violet.

Irene had been her friend for a lot of years, a fellow troublemaker and her partner in crime but she could be callous. Irene beamed at her, unperturbed.

“You’re a good nurse,” her friend said, softly. “It’s going to be a sad day for the profession when the right man sweeps you off your feet and takes you away from us.”

Violet laughed lightly and stood up.

“Trust me when I say this, Irene – there is no ‘right man’ for me.”

Irene chuckled as Violet began to walk away.

“That’s what they all say.”

“I mean it,” Violet called back to her.

She blew her friend a kiss as she walked back towards the gate with a sigh. There would never be a ‘right man’. The right woman on the other hand? Well…Violet was working on that one.

____

Bee was still reeling from her hospital trip as she walked through the door of the Division’s poky little Whitehall office; three pairs of concerned eyes turning to her. She clutched her side through her jacket that she’d buttoned all the way up to the neck. The blue blouse she’d worn that morning had been binned; utterly ruined beyond all repair. Bee was just lucky that the blood didn’t show up much on the dark fabric of her jacket and slacks.

“Where the Hell have you been?” said Ligur, standing up from his perch on the windowsill.

“Brighton seafront,” muttered Bee, sarcastically. “Where do you bloody think?”

“Ligur said you were stabbed,” said Dagon, gently. “We were worried.”

Beezle sighed and eased herself into her chair, wincing at the pinch of the sutures in her side.

“I wasn’t stabbed, I was…it was a slash,” Bee explained. “It only needed a couple of stitches. I’m fine.”

A couple of stitches and Violet Rutherford running her hands through Bee’s hair, to be exact. Beezle was sure her hands were still trembling at the memory of it. She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a small bottle of cheap whisky, pulling to top off with her teeth and taking a quick swig.

“So,” she rasped, feeling the burn of liquor in her throat, “Did you catch him?”

Ligur glanced at Hastur, and then shook his head.

“He bolted,” mumbled Ligur, “and Hastur didn’t see him go back to his flat at all.”

Bee pounded the desk with her fist.

“Fuck.” Her team looked guiltily at each other and she sighed. “It’s not your fault, Ligur. I shouldn’t have taken off after him, I should have waited for you.”

It hit Beezle then just how close she’d come to losing her life in that alley by the same hands that killed Raziel. Her Division had already lost one chief this year – they didn’t need to lose another so soon.

“We’ll get him, Boss,” Hastur piped up from the windowsill.

Beezle nodded. They would get him. If it took them another two months, they’d track him down, and she’d kill the bastard herself.

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Violet was up to her elbows in blood and loving every minute of it. An accident had occurred at the Pilkington glass factory at Hoxton which meant that the London Hospital’s emergency department was full to bursting with people sporting injuries of varying severity. Blood was everywhere; screams of pain echoing off the green tiled walls as the staff nurses and doctors performed triage – getting the most urgent cases to surgery and into treatment rooms; probationers left to observe the more minor injuries.

“Nurse!”

Violet looked up from a patient with a lacerated face to find a doctor hastily beckoning her into a treatment room. Leaving the patient in the very capable hands of a third-year probationer nurse, Violet hurried over.

“Nurse, I need you to grab some forceps and help me clamp some of these bleeders.”

The patient on the examination table was sedated and obviously in shock; deep lacerations covering his head, neck, chest and arms; his blood-soaked shirt ripped and discarded to the corner of the room. The sight would have sent less-experienced nurses running, but adrenaline was coursing through Violet’s veins and she eagerly surged forward, grabbing a set of clamps and proceeding to dig for bleeding veins wherever she was directed.

This was what Violet loved most about her job; what she lived for. Most were content with ward nursing – with administering enemas and changing dressings and emptying bedpans – but Violet’s particular talent lay in emergency nursing; in the medicine and the excitement of never knowing what would come through the door. Her enthusiasm was merited, but it was one of the main reasons she was hauled into Matron’s office so much and rotated to the wards at least twice a year – to ensure she remembered to put the needs of the patient above her own excitement.

Violet worked tirelessly for hours, pulling shards of shattered glass from wounds and disinfecting lacerations and punctures; calming patients and probationers alike. By the time her shift was finished, Violet was exhausted.

“I’m looking forward to a nice long bath and a stiff drink,” muttered Irene as they scrubbed their hands clean of dried blood.

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Violet replied, rinsing her fingers under the warm water, “except I still have one more thing to do before I go home.”

“Oh?”

Irene raised a strawberry brow as she untied her bloody apron and discarded it in the laundry basket. Violet purposely avoided her eye.

“Yes, I promised a patient that I’d check on her stitches this evening.”

Irene’s other eyebrow rose to mirror the first.

“But your shift is finished,” she stated.

Violet said nothing as she unfastened her own bloodied apron and deposited it with Irene’s in the basket. In truth, she’d been looking forward to this visit all day, and even as tired as she was, Violet still thrummed with excitement.

Eleanor Beezle had left her with an address and a promise that it was the right one so that Violet could come and change her dressings. It had been the only situation Violet could engineer so that she could see Bee again. Yes, she could have told the intelligence officer to come back to the London, but Bee had displayed a real fear of the clinical environment and Violet couldn’t have guaranteed she’d be the one to change the dressings. This way she could spend time with Bee without the prying eyes of London Hospital staff.

“You’re working out of hours!” Irene exclaimed, accusingly.

“No,” insisted Violet, “I’m just doing my patient a favour – she’s afraid of hospitals.”

Irene rolled her eyes and grinned.

“You are such a goody-two-shoes,” she said. “I absolutely hate you.”

“No you don’t, you love me,” Violet retorted with a grin.

Irene shook her head in amusement.

“You’re quite insane, Rutherford. Oh well, enjoy your unpaid overtime – I’ll have absolutely no sympathy for you while I’m relaxing with my nice glass of gin!”

Violet chuckled as her friend breezed out, leaving her alone in the supply room. After drying her hands, Violet selected a clean apron and then set about gathering what she needed for her home visit.

She thought back to Bee sitting on the examination table a few days earlier and the way her breath had hitched when Violet leaned in; the way her dark eyes had widened and flickered to Violet’s lips as she’d spoken. Violet knew Bee liked her; that there was some attraction there. She wondered what Beezle would have done if Violet had leaned in just a little bit more and kissed her…

Violet shook off the thought. She was bold, but not careless and besides…Bee had been vulnerable and afraid, and Violet would never have taken advantage like that. Yes, she wanted to kiss the lovely Miss Bee but Violet also wanted to court her; to go out together and spend time in her company; to get to know her and what she liked. Violet was very attracted to the mystery and the seriousness; to the dark eyes and black hair that fell in soft waves to her cheekbones, but attraction meant nothing if it wasn’t organic. She couldn’t force it. She wouldn’t..

Closing her bag with a snap, Violet smiled to herself as she retrieved her cape and made her way out of the hospital. She had an opportunity now to get to know Bee better, and it wasn’t one she planned on wasting.

____

The past few days had been difficult for Beezle. It wasn’t the first time she’d been wounded in the line of duty or the first time she’d wound up in a hospital because of it. She hated that it had made her weak and vulnerable, but she was glad that none of her division had seen her that way. They need a strong leader at a time like this, with the country teetering on the brink of war and in the aftermath of Raziel’s death. Bee felt like she owed it to them to be tougher than this.

Morningstar had ordered her to take a few days to recover and Bee was going crazy. She’d been confined to the office, going through file after file and leaving the fieldwork up to Hastur and Ligur. Beezle didn’t know how Dagon could stand being inside all the time; thriving amongst her files and paperwork where Beezle felt like she was crawling in her own skin.

“I’ve gained a new respect for you, Dagon,” Bee muttered as she threw down her pencil and ran a hand through her hair.

Dagon looked up from her papers, blinking at Bee with pale eyes. To the outsider, Dagon would easily pass for a librarian in her sensible brogues, tweed skirts, and neat chignon in which there were always stuck several pencils.

“Why’s that?” Dagon asked.

“Being stuck in here,” huffed Beezle, wincing as she sat pack in her chair a little too heavily, causing a flash of pain in her side.

Dagon chuckled and pushed back her chair, moving to make a fresh pot of coffee.

“Oh, I quite like it,” she mused. “Its cosy in here and there’s less risk of serious injury.”

Beezle made a face and folded her arms across her chest.

“You could get a pretty nasty paper cut,” muttered Bee.

That made Dagon laugh.

“Stop being so grumpy! You’ll be back out in the field before you know it. Did the hospital tell you when you have to go back?”

Bee sighed and picked up her pencil again, tapping it against the edge of her desk.

“I’m not going back,” she replied. “One of the nurses said she’d come out to me to check on my stitches.”

Dagon’s pale eyebrows shot up.

“Really?” she asked with a knowing grin

Beezle avoided her eye. Dagon could be quite perceptive when she wanted to be, and she’d already probed Bee about her visit to the emergency department. She’d tried very hard to be vague and tried even harder not to blush as she thought of the beautiful nurse who’d talked her down and held her hand while she was stitched up. Bee didn’t want to give Dagon any reason to be suspicious – none of the Division knew Violet had read what was in Raziel’s envelope and Bee was determined to keep as much distance between the nurse and her colleagues as possible. She didn’t want Violet in trouble.

After a long, mind-numbingly boring day, Bee was almost glad to be home, wincing as she shrugged off her jacket and reached for the bottle of cheap whisky on the table. Her side hurt – the deep ache of flesh knitting itself back together – and she took a long swig of the liquor to dull it. Sighing heavily, Bee loosened her tie and unfastened the first few buttons of her shirt, untucking it from her grey slacks as she moved to the sink to splash her face with cold water. Bee grimaced at her reflection, noticing the dark circles around her eyes from a few nights of sleeping badly. Tired wasn’t a good look on her.

A knock at the door sent Beezle’s heart racing and she hurried to pat her face dry with a towel before moving as quickly as possible to answer it. Beezle had been both dreading and looking forward to this moment since she’d left the hospital and her stomach fluttered wildly as she pulled the door open to find the pretty nurse on the other side.

Violet smiled softly at her.

“Hello,” she said, quietly.

“Hi,” Bee responded, breathlessly.

She had been replaying moments from their encounter at the hospital over in her head for the past couple of days, and Bee just didn’t know what to make of it. On the one hand, Beezle just did not have time for courting – she had more important things to do; the country’s security to think of – and Violet Rutherford was a distraction Bee could ill afford to have. On the other hand, the memory of Violet’s hand stroking gently over her hair made Beezle’s knees weak; those sharp green eyes and coy smile made her heart race.

Violet had seen Bee at her most vulnerable and didn’t think any less of her. In fact, it had only seemed to bolster Violet’s enthusiasm, and God damn it but the part of her that Bee was sure she’d quashed years ago was resurfacing around her; craving to be known and to be touched and held…

Hastily, Beezle stepped aside and let Violet in.

“How have you been?” Violet asked; wasting no time in removing her navy nurse’s cape and setting her bag on Bee’s table.

Bee took a large, steadying breath.

“Fine,” she replied.

Violet smiled again and moved immediately to the sink to wash her hands.

“Have you been in any pain?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Bee said, quietly.

Violet raised an eyebrow as she shook the excess water from her skin.

“That’s not the question I asked.”

Bee looked at the floor. It had been an automatic response – she’d been telling H Division over and over that she was fine, that she could handle it.

“A bit,” Bee conceded.

Violet nodded, sagely.

“Might I take a look?”

That was what she was here for – to change the dressings and check on the wound. Bee nervously led Violet over to her messy sleeping quarter and awkwardly lay down on her bed, lifting up her shirt and vest to reveal her neat dressing.

Bee watched Violet as she worked; brow furrowed in concentration as she cut away the old bandage and removed the dressing pad. Beezle hissed at the sharp tug against her wound as the pad came away with some resistance, stuck to her skin with dried blood.

“Sorry,” Violet murmured.

“S’ alright,” was Beezle’s hoarse whisper.

She bit her lip as gentle hands palpated her side; trying hard not to notice the rough skin of Violet’s fingertips as they touched her.

“You’ve done well to keep this dry and clean,” Violet said, brightly. “There’s no redness, no swelling, no heat – any pain you feel is just from the wound healing.”

Bee nodded and stared at the ceiling.

“Good.”

She lay as still as possible while Violet cleaned the wound of dried blood, swabbed it with more disinfectant and redressed it with utmost professionalism and practiced ease. Bee was almost disappointed at how quickly it was over, pulling herself up to sit and watch Violet as she tidied up; disposing of the used dressings and pouring dirty water down the sink.

“You can probably get those stitches out in a week,” Violet said, calling back over her shoulder as she set to scrubbing the bowl she had used to wash the dried blood from Beezle’s wound.

Bee pulled down her vest and shirt, standing up again with minimal wincing.

“Will you come back and do that?” she asked, quietly.

Violet paused in her scrubbing and turned; her green eyes, piercing.

“Would you like me to?”

Beezle did. She hadn’t quite figured out what it was she felt for Violet, but she realised suddenly that she wanted to find out.

“Yeah,” Bee replied, softly.

Violet smiled at her again and turned back to her bowl, rinsing it out and setting it aside to dry before wiping her hands on her starched white apron. Bee watched her, feeling slightly lost in her own home and she shoved her hands in the pocket of her slacks as Violet finished up and leaned casually back against the sink. The nurse seemed in no hurry to leave, studying Bee’s face with her keen green eyes.

Bee knew she had to do something. Violet wasn’t exactly packing up to go and Lord knows Bee didn’t want her to leave just yet. They couldn’t just stand there and stare at each other.

Taking a deep breath, Beezle moved to the table and picked up the bottle of whisky.

“Drink?”

A drink was safe, wasn’t it? A small token of thanks for Violet taking the time to come around off duty and see to Bee’s dressings. Largely non-committal, and if Bee felt like things were going nowhere by the time Violet had finished drinking it then she could always kick her out.

“I’d love one,” Violet beamed.

_____

Violet sat on Bee’s couch with her legs tucked up underneath her and a glass of cheap liquor cradled in her hands; Bee sitting on the other side of the lumpy cushions with her head resting on her hand; dark eyes watching her.

“I appreciate you coming halfway across the city just so I didn’t have to set foot in that hospital again,” Bee said, quietly.

“It’s my pleasure,” said Violet with a smile, “and besides, I had a really good day today – this is a nice little ending to it.”

She was sure Bee blushed a little; hiding it as she ducked her head to take a sip of whisky.

“Do you like it?” Bee asked as she cautiously sat on the opposite end of the couch. “Nursing, I mean. Long hours and…sick people…”

Violet chuckled.

“It has its perks,” she replied. “It’s not always sickness and enemas and scrubbing bedpans. Today, I spent eight hours working on people who were horribly injured in an accident at the glass factory. I’ve pulled a shard of glass two inches long from somebody’s carotid artery and helped to clamp it and repair it; I’ve dug around in somebody’s chest to pull out tiny shattered shards. I was up to my elbows in blood and it was so exciting.”

Beezle’s dark eyebrows shot up.

“People getting ripped to shreds by flying, shattered glass is exciting?”

“Well, that’s pretty awful,” Violet agreed, “but I meant the medicine – the excitement of saving a life or a limb with your own hands; putting all your knowledge into practice under intense pressure. It’s…”

“A rush?” Bee finished, quietly.

Violet beamed.

“Exactly! That’s the best part of being an emergency nurse – you never know what’s going to come through that door and you have to be ready for anything. You can spend your whole day dealing with a measles epidemic or breaking up a fight between East End gang members trying to cut each other to shreds in the waiting room; or accidents at the docks or the factories. No day is the same and that’s what I love so much about it.”

She watched as the corner of Bee’s mouth rose into a smile, a huff of something like laughter escaping her lips. Violet blinked.

“You’re laughing at me,” she exclaimed.

Bee shook her head, trying to hide her smile.

“I’m not,” she insisted.

“Yes you are! Why are you laughing?”

“I’m not laughing _at_ you, Violet,” Beezle repeated, “It’s just…strangely, I know what you mean – about the excitement of never knowing what your day will bring; of having to be prepared for anything.”

Violet looked at her over the rim of her glass as she took a sip of the cheap whisky, not flinching once at the burn of it.

“I can imagine you do,” she said softly. “You must run into danger all the time.”

“Sometimes quite literally,” Bee admitted. “The other day, I knew it was dangerous to run after my suspect but…that’s the best part – when the adrenaline starts coursing through your veins. It’s like…”

“You wouldn’t want to do anything else?” Violet finished.

Bee looked at her and nodded.

“Exactly,” she murmured.

Violet glanced away and took another sip of whisky. This was the first time Bee had ever mentioned what had happened to her – how she’d been injured in the first place. So serious and guarded, Violet didn’t expect Bee to ever talk about her work…but then again, Violet had been involved in this one from the start. Whether either of them liked it or not, Violet knew who she was and what she did, and it didn’t frighten her one bit.

“Did you catch them?” Violet asked, “The person who did this to you?”

Bee looked away, staring down into the amber depths of her glass.

“No,” she replied, quietly, “not yet. But I will.”

“I have no doubt,” Violet murmured.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching each other carefully over the rim of their glasses until Bee drained hers in a decisive gulp and moved to stand.

“Top up?” she asked.

Violet hummed her assent and drained her glass before holding it out for Bee to take.

“Yes please.”

She smiled as Beezle’s fingers brushed against her own, noticing how those dark eyes quickly looked away and the faint pink flush rise in her face. Violet didn’t know why she liked it so much – seeing flashes of shyness through Bee’s tough exterior – but it made her a little breathless.

As Bee moved away to refill their glasses, Violet took the opportunity to look around from her vantage point on the flat sofa. Beezle’s flat was not all that dissimilar to her own – one room sectioned off into sleeping and living quarters, plus a small area that served as a kitchen-diner, and a small water closet to the side.

Just beside the sofa was a small, round wooden table, upon which sat a number of magazines with brightly coloured front covers. On closer inspection they appeared to be mostly detective pulps and Serie Noire. Violet grinned at the insight.

“What are these?” she asked, picking up the magazine of the top of the pile entitled ‘Spicy Mystery Stories’ and waving it, playfully.

Bee’s mouth quirked up again as she returned with two filled glasses.

“Light reading.”

Violet chuckled as she accepted her glass and took a sip, turning the magazine over in her hand.

“I have to admit, I would never have pinned you as a reader of pulp fiction.”

Bee collapsed next to her on the sofa, closer than before and with a real smile playing on her lips.

“Why not?” Bee asked. “They’re…easy. You don’t have to concentrate too hard on the plot, which is perfect when your head is already full.”

“Hmmm,” replied Violet as she casually leafed through it. “I’ve never read any, although my friend Irene has a few science fiction ones. She rather likes that one writer – Lovecraft, is it?”

Bee scoffed, gently.

“He’s a bit of a tosser,” she stated. “I mean, he writes some weird and wonderful stuff, but as a person? Wanker. If you want science fiction, you’re better off with Asimov. No anti-Semitism there, and he bases his fiction in genuine science.”

Violet laughed as Beezle’s smile widened and she took a sip of her whisky.

“I’ll look him up.”

This was the most animated she’d seen Bee since they’d met. She was relaxing in Violet’s company, eased by a couple of glasses of cheap whisky and opening up. Violet knew very little about pulp, except that it was cheap and easy reading, but she could see that Beezle was a fan from the way she spoke about it.

“Maybe, I could borrow this one for a trial?”

Violet waved the copy of ‘Spicy Mystery Stories’ with a grin and Beezle laughed nervously, reaching out to try and grab it.

“You don’t want to borrow that one,” Bee replied.

Violet raised her brows and moved the magazine out of Bee’s reach.

“Why not?”

Beezle’s cheeks grew pink again and she rubbed the back of her neck.

“It’s…er…” stammered Beezle, avoiding Violet’s eyes again. “Well…’Spicy’ sort of means…it’s mildly pornographic.”

Violet’s eyes widened and she started to laugh.

“Oh, well in that case, I’m _definitely_ borrowing it!” she giggled. “I could do with a bit of _spice_!”

Bee snorted into her whisky, shoulders shaking as she tried to contain her own laughter. God, but Violet liked this woman a great deal, and she loved the way Bee looked when she laughed. Violet wanted to spend so much more time making her laugh.

____

“I should go home,” murmured Violet after their third glass of whisky.

They had been talking for hours and Bee was more than pleasantly surprised at it. Violet was…well…lovely. She was interesting and funny and clever, and they had talked about books and politics, and joked about Bee’s ‘spicy’ literature. Despite herself, Bee had found herself relaxing in Violet’s company and enjoying herself immensely. She was disappointed that it had to end.

“Are you…getting the tube home?” Bee asked as Violet drained the last of her whisky and set her glass on the table to the side.

“Yes,” replied Violet as she dug her shoes out from under the sofa. “It’s not too late – it should still be running.”

“That’s not…I mean…are you okay going home alone?”

Violet blinked at her and smiled.

“Are you concerned for my safety, Miss Bee?” she asked, playfully.

Going back to Whitechapel at this time of night? Yes, Beezle was a little concerned.

“I just want to know you’re going to get home alright,” Bee mumbled.

Violet chuckled softly as she stood up.

“I’ll be fine,” Violet reassured her. “It’s not even fully dark yet!”

Beezle considered going with her; escorting her back home on the tube and walking Violet right up to her door, but she trusted Violet’s confidence.

“If you’re sure.”

She watched Violet cross the room to collect her cape and her bag, leaving a paper package of fresh wound dressings on the table. Bee walked with her to the door, wishing she didn’t have to say good night.

“Thank you for coming over,” Bee said softly as Violet stepped outside.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” Violet replied. “It’s been lovely.”

“Yeah,” Bee agreed. “It has.”

The air between them was heavy and Bee suddenly felt very out of her depth. The evening _had_ been lovely and Beezle wanted desperately to do it again; to spend more time with the beautiful and engaging nurse on her doorstep.

“Do you like the pictures?” Bee asked, suddenly.

Violet smiled.

“I do,” she replied. “Very much.”

Bee took a deep breath. She couldn’t believe she was doing this – all the arguments she’d had with herself about why courting was a terrible idea suddenly melting to nothing on her doorstep.

“Do you want to go with me? Saturday night – whatever is new.”

Violet beamed at her and Bee’s heart threatened to beat right out of her chest.

“I would love to,” Violet said softly. “Seven o’clock?”

“Great. The ODEON Luxe in Leicester Square?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Bee breathed a sigh of relief as they said their farewells and she watched as Violet walked to the end of the corridor and went down the stairs. Finally, Beezle closed her door and leaned heavily against it, biting back a smile as she ran both hands through her hair. She was going to step out with Violet Rutherford on Saturday, and she just couldn’t wait. 


	5. Chapter 5

Bee didn’t remember the last time she spent this long doing her hair. It wasn’t that she didn’t care what she looked like – on the contrary, Bee was very conscious of how she appeared, it’s just that she normally had more important things to do with her day than tease each individual wave into place with pomade.

She wanted to look her best today because she was meeting Violet later for an evening at the pictures. Bee had chosen grey slacks and waistcoat with a crisp white shirt and argyle tie, leaving home later than usual and missing the train. She rolled into the dingy Whitehall basement office that served as Division H’s headquarters feeling pretty good about life, and her colleagues all turned to stare at her.

“What?” Bee asked, tugging at her waistcoat self-consciously.

Hastur’s grey eyes narrowed as he peered closely at her.

“You look…”

He trailed off, searching for the right word. Beezle frowned.

“What?”

Hastur glanced at Ligur, who also gave her a puzzling look.

“…Nice?” Ligur suggested.

“Nice?” echoed Bee.

Ligur shrugged and Hastur, who obviously couldn’t better him, nodded.

“Yeah,” Hastur agreed. “All smart, like.”

Beezle’s frown deepened as she looked at the two men at their usual place by the window, and then smoothed the front of her waistcoat.

“Are you saying I don’t usually look smart?”

The gruesome twosome looked at each other, uneasily.

“Er…no, Boss…”

“That’s not…we didn’t…”

Dagon rolled her eyes and grinned.

“Stop messing with them, Bee,” she chuckled. “They’re only simple creatures.”

Bee flashed her a devious look that may or may not have contained a smile, and Hastur and Ligur visibly relaxed, happy to learn that Beezle was just pulling their legs.

“What’s the occasion?” added Dagon; a pencil dangling from her mouth.

They didn’t often do this – talk about their personal lives with each other. In a world where it was their job to know everyone’s business, they tended to afford each other the luxury of a few secrets. Bee contemplated telling them to mind their own but…her appearance was obviously significant enough for them to have commented on in the first place.

Sighing, Bee pulled out her chair and sat down at her desk.

“I’m meeting a friend tonight,” she replied, simply. “We’re going to the pictures.”

“A friend?” repeated Hastur.

“You have friends?” Ligur quipped.

He and Hastur sniggered and earned a glare from Beezle that silenced them both immediately. Dagon chuckled again.

“Do you know what you’re going to see?”

Bee shook her head.

“No. Not got that far yet.”

Dagon picked up a newspaper from her desk and waved it gently.

“Apparently, ‘The Wizard of Oz’ opens this weekend. I don’t know if that’s your thing, but…it might be your _friend’s_ …”

Beezle’s dark eyebrows rose as Dagon gave her a knowing smirk. Although Dagon had never said a word, Bee always felt that Dagon had suspicions about her sexuality. Thankfully, Dagon had never once seemed judgemental.

“I’ll bear it in mind,” Bee replied, quietly.

‘The Wizard of Oz’ didn’t at all sound like Beezle’s kind of thing – she preferred mysteries and crime thrillers just like the pulp literature she read – but she’d be willing to give it a try if that’s what Violet wanted.

Bee had been more than pleasantly surprised to find that she and Violet shared common interests. In truth, she’d been expecting to discover the nurse to be just a pretty face without much depth to her, but Violet had been funny and engaging and just a little bit cheeky, taking home Beezle’s Spicy Mysteries pulp for further reading.

It had been a while since Bee had courted and her last girlfriend had been…a placeholder; somebody she wouldn’t get attached to. She suspected she might be in very real danger of becoming attached to Violet Rutherford.

____

“All I’m saying,” Violet explained as she took out the pins that held her hair up in front of Irene’s mirror, “is that there are other fantasy writers than Lovecraft.”

Irene lounged on her bed, surrounded by fantasy pulps and watching Violet get changed for her evening out. This conversation had been going on for most of the day and Irene was doing her best to convince Violet of the merits of her favourite fantasy writer. Having read up on him since leaving Beezle’s flat a few days earlier, Violet wasn’t budging on her opinion of the man.

“If you say so,” Irene muttered.

Violet grinned at her as she shook her hair loose and fluffed out the curls with her fingers.

“Maybe you should branch out,” Violet suggested. “Try a different genre?”

Irene pulled a face.

“Says the woman who only picked up her first pulp this week.”

Violet shrugged and shimmied out of her nurse’s uniform, picking up a pink floral dress and stepping delicately into it. It had been another long day and there wasn’t an awful lot of time between finishing her shift and meeting Beezle in Leicester Square, so she’d opted to bring her things with her and change in Irene’s room at the nurse’s accommodation.

She’d spent ages the night before trying to pick out the perfect outfit for the occasion and after discarding several skirts, blouses, and frocks, had settled on the sweet, flowing tea dress she was currently wearing. It wasn’t too much for an evening at the pictures; pretty and hugging her body in all the right places.

Violet picked up a brush and began to shape her hair into something less fluffy; catching Irene’s eye in the mirror.

“What?”

A soft smile played about Irene’s lips.

“Nothing,” she replied, “It just seems like an awful lot of effort for an evening with your cousin.”

“Am I not allowed to look nice?” Violet countered.

Irene sighed as shook her head.

“You always look nice,” Irene said, gently. “Mostly I’m just frightened somebody will see you, sweep you off your feet, and I’ll be left to die an old maid alone in this place.”

Violet paused in brushing out her hair and set the brush down carefully before turning and reaching for her friend’s hand.

“I can assure you, Irene – we’ll both end up old maids in this place, fighting over matron’s position when she dies.”

Irene scoffed.

“That old battleaxe? She’ll never die. We’ll be decrepit old Staff Nurses forever.”

Violet grinned and picked up her brush again. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Irene had a point. Things ran smoothly at the London – there was very little need to stir up the pot and so positions stagnated; Ward Sisters kept their positions for years and there was very little room for advancement. Violet often wondered if she should think about applying for positions in the city’s other hospitals, possibly St Thomas’s or Guy’s.

She finished shaping her hair and applied her signature red lipstick; blotting carefully.

“How do I look?”

Violet gave a little twirl and grinned at her friend.

“Sickeningly beautiful as always,”sighed Irene. “You know you do.”

Violet hoped so – she purposely dressed to impress tonight.

____

Leicester Square was unsurprisingly busy for a Saturday night. Beezle exited the tube station with the sea of people spilling out onto the street above and into the evening sunshine. The neon lights were never half as impressive by daylight and the summer evenings were long. Luckily it would be dark enough by the time the film finished and the lights would be blinding in the night.

Bee waited nervously in front of the picture house for Violet, tugging her clothes straight and running a hand through her hair several times. She was early, and had to wait almost fifteen minutes before she caught sight of Violet in the crowd; her hair shining in the sunlight like spun gold. Just the sight of her made Bee’s heart beat faster.

“Hello!” Violet greeted her, happily.

“Hi…”

Oh god, but Violet was even more gorgeous in her civilian clothes. Her pink dress hugged her curves like a dream; the red lipstick heightening the plumpness of her lips and bringing out the green of her eyes. For a few seconds, Bee could only stare at her; all conversation stilled on her tongue.

“So,” continued Violet, just as though Beezle wasn’t gaping at her like a lunatic, “what are we going to see?”

Violet linked her arm through Bee’s, and Beezle’s brain finally kicked back into gear at the contact.

“Uhm…” she croaked before clearing her throat and taking a deep breath. “I don’t know. If we’re quick we might be able to get tickets for The Wizard of Oz before it sells out.”

It had been Dagon’s suggestion and not Beezle’s natural choice, but she was willing to suffer it for Violet.

“Oh!” exclaimed Violet. “I remember reading that book years ago. They’ve made it into a film?”

“Seems so,” Bee replied.

Violet gave her a decisive nod.

“Then yes, I think that sound lovely,” she said.

The ODEON Luxe Picture Palace had been built in 1937 as the company’s flagship theatre; its neon lights blazing and large posters displaying the most recent films released. Beezle and Violet purchased two tickets to ‘The Wizard of Oz’ and managed to squeeze into the back row of a crowded auditorium after buying a bag of caramels to share from the in-house vendor.

The seats were soft red velvet, and they could sit comfortably side by side. As the lights dimmed and the curtains opened, Violet reached over and linked her fingers with Bee’s in the darkness. Her rose scent was sweet and heady, wrapping around Beezle’s brain and making it hard to concentrate on Judy Garland singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’.

In fact, she could barely concentrate on the movie at all with Violet’s shoulder leaning into hers; the rough skin of her fingers tracing soft circles on Bee’s palm. Bee barely noticed the film change from black and white into full technicolour as Dorothy entered Oz, because she was watching Violet’s face as it lit up with wonder and awe.

She could have watched her all night; the smattering of pale freckles across Violet’s nose making more sense to Bee than the flying monkeys and the scarecrow without a brain. Violet was so expressive – every emotion she felt passing plain as day across her face; her green eyes shining bright in the darkness. Bee felt lightheaded and breathless and could barely tear her eyes away for a minute.

Violet was still dabbing at her eyes with Bee’s handkerchief when they left the theatre.

“Are you okay?” Bee asked with a concerned frown.

“Yes,” sniffed Violet, “That was just such a lovely ending – how Dorothy realised how much she loved her home and her family, and that they all loved her just as much…”

Beezle felt her frown melt into a smile. Violet was evidently a romantic and Bee found she didn’t mind that at all, which is probably what surprised her the most. Beezle had never been good with emotions – her own or other people’s – but it amazed her at how readily Violet expressed all of hers and how Bee didn’t want to run from it.

Violet blew her nose and sniffed one last time into the handkerchief before lifting her head and beaming at Bee like then sun coming out from behind a cloud.

“So…what now?”

The sun had set by this point and the neon lights of Leicester Square shone brightly in the dark. The night was warm with a slight breeze coming in from the Thames – perfect weather for late May.

“Do you…fancy taking a walk along the Embankment?” asked Bee.

Violet giggled.

“Along the Yellow Brick Road?”

Beezle felt herself grin.

“I’m not sure we’ll find any lions along the way.”

“Or tigers,” added Violet.

“Or bears!”

“Oh, my!”

Violet giggled again as she linked her arm with Bee’s and tugged her along the street, chanting ‘lions and tigers and bears – oh, my!’ over and over again until Beezle finally joined in despite the funny looks they garnered from passers-by.

They bought ices by the river and stopped to eat them as they watched the lights dance in the darkness of the Thames. The weather wasn’t hot enough yet to cause the river to give off its usual stagnant stench that appeared in summer months, and so the breeze was pleasant as they licked melting vanilla ice cream from their fingers.

Bee couldn’t remember the last time she laughed as much as she did with Violet on their walk along the river; couldn’t remember feeling so comfortable with somebody. They talked about the movie, about Violet’s friend Irene who had a great love of fantasy and science fiction, and they laughed about the Spicy Mysteries that Violet had taken home with her. Beezle had spent so many years being closed off and it felt incredible to be drawn out of her shell; feeling her walls crumble a little more with every step; every brush of Violet’s shoulder against her own; every glance.

Before they knew it, they had walked as far as Tower Hill – ten minutes walk from Violet’s flat near Aldgate East tube station.

“Do you…I mean…can I walk you the rest of the way home?” Bee asked, haltingly.

Violet smiled gently at her and nodded.

“I would love that,” she murmured.

____

Violet couldn’t believe how wonderfully the evening was going. She had boldly reached for Bee’s hand the moment the house lights dimmed in the theatre and her heart had skipped a beat when Bee didn’t make any sign of moving away. In fact, she’d kept her fingers linked with Violet’s for the duration of the film and only let go when the lights came up again.

She loved that she’d made Bee laugh and smile. God, but Violet loved watching her laugh – the way her whole face changed and lit up; cheeks tinted pink and dark eyes shining. Bee was gorgeous and Violet’s felt breathless to look at her and that wavy black hair falling in her eyes as she ducked her head to hide her grin.

They didn’t realise how far they’d walked; that they had almost gone as far as Violet’s flat at the edge of Whitechapel, but she was thrilled that Bee asked to walk her the rest of the way. Their shoulders bumped as they walked; Violet an inch or so taller in her heeled shoes; their fingers brushing every few steps. Violet didn’t want it to end.

“Thank you for walking me home,” she said quietly as they climbed the stairs to Violet’s floor.

“It’s my pleasure,” Bee replied.

They arrived at Violet’s front door, slowing to a stop. Violet turned to face Bee in the dimly-lit corridor and stepped in close, reaching out to wrap her little finger around Bee’s. It delighted her that, once again, Beezle made no move to get away.

“I want to do this again,” Violet whispered.

Bee looked at her with huge, dark eyes.

“So do I,” Beezle replied.

Violet smiled and gently reached for Bee’s other hand.

“I like dancing,” said Violet. “There’s a club – The Gateways on Bayswater Road – everybody is like us there…”

It was one of Violet’s favourite places to go on her rare nights off, where she could dance and sing and drink and mingle with other Sapphics. She hadn’t danced in so long and wanted to go there with Bee.

“I don’t really know how to dance,” Bee mumbled. “I’m not very good…”

Violet leaned in close; the tip of her nose softly brushing Beezle’s cheekbone.

“That’s alright,” she murmured. “I’ll lead.”

Her heart beat fast in her chest as Bee stared at her and swallowed nervously. Violet could almost feel her trembling.

“Alright,” Beezle finally agreed.

They stood for a moment; fingers entwined and breath ghosting across skin as they looked at each other in the darkened corridor. They were so close. All Violet needed to do was lean in…

“I want to kiss you goodnight,” Violet whispered.

Bee’s breath hitched and for the first time that night, Violet was worried she’d pushed too far; that Beezle would step away. She didn’t. Instead, Bee nodded, slowly.

Her lips were soft against Violet’s – a tentative, ghost of a kiss that lasted only a few seconds. She had barely drawn back when she felt Bee’s fingers disentangle from hers and curl against her jaw instead, pulling Violet back in. The kiss this time was firmer, more confident; Violet’s free hand going to Bee’s slim waist as she melted into it. She could have kissed Bee all night; pulled her into her flat and then…

A door slammed further up the corridor and they jumped apart, startled and breathless. Casting a glance over her shoulder Violet saw a neighbour lean over to lock his door and then take off down the stairs without so much as a glance up at them.

Violet’s heart was pounding; her lips still tingled from the kiss and she touched them lightly with her fingertips, grinning as she turned back to a pink-cheeked Bee.

“I should go home,” Beezle said, quietly; a smile playing on her lips.

So much for pulling Bee into her flat. Violet sighed and conceded.

“Alright.”

Bee’s fingers slipped from hers reluctantly as she moved away.

“Dancing,” Beezle confirmed. “Same time next week?”

“Absolutely,” promised Violet. “I’ll come to yours first - take your stitches out and we’ll go from there.”

Bee gave her a soft, almost shy smile and moved back in, stealing one last kiss that made Violet's knees go weak. It was torture to let Bee walk away from her; breathless as Beezle looked back at her one more time before disappearing down the dark corridor.

No power in Heaven or Hell would keep Violet away now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, 'The Wizard of Oz' was released in August 1939, not May. Once again, I am not sorry about bringing historical dates forward to serve my purpose!
> 
> To the...six people reading this wee fic: thank you so much for your continued support and your comments that keep me going. I love you <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Festive period is over! Now resuming normal service.

Beezle sat at her desk in Division H’s poky little basement office, absently chewing on her thumbnail as she stared at the stack of paperwork in front of her and barely registering the words on the pages. Her evening with Violet had been…wonderful, from watching her reactions to the film to talking and laughing on the long walk home, and then finally that kiss goodnight…

Remembering that kiss had driven Bee to distraction several times over the last couple of days – how Violet had asked to kiss Bee in a soft whisper; the image of that sweet, round face and the feel of those soft lips against her own. God but Bee had wanted so badly to push her fingers through those golden curls; to pull Violet in by her waist in the middle of that dark corridor and kiss her all night. She wished it had lasted longer but they had been disturbed and Bee’s courage had failed her, taking that opportunity to leave.

The truth was, Beezle had never been so instantly enamoured with somebody like this before and it unsettled her how fast she was dropping her defenses. She was a suspicious woman by nature, and she couldn’t stop that faint, gnawing feeling that this was all too good to be true. Of all the people in the whole of London, why had Violet been the one to end up with Raziel’s list? There had been an instant connection between Bee and Violet, and Violet had been the one to pursue  _ her _ …

It would be easier, Bee thought, if Violet’s feelings for her weren’t genuine; if it was a ruse and she was somehow involved with the Nazi Fifth Columnists, planted to throw Bee off her game. It would be easier because Bee was in very real danger of falling in love with this beautiful, interesting, funny, sweet woman, and she was sure to get her heart shattered to pieces if she allowed herself to fall. Violet was…far too good for somebody like Bee, and one day Violet would realise that.

“Everything alright there, boss?”

Dagon’s voice broke her reverie and Beezle hurriedly took her thumb from her mouth, dropping her hands to her desk as she straightened.

“Yeah,” she muttered, “it’s just…”

Bee bit her lip. She knew what she had to do even if it was just for her own peace of mind, but she also knew she shouldn’t do it; that she should just leave the matter well alone. Her heart told her that Violet was genuine but her head just wouldn’t shut up and it would hound her until satisfied.

Dagon’s pale eyebrows slowly arched upwards as she waited for Bee to continue.

“I need you to check somebody out for me,” Bee said finally.

“Of course,” replied as she picked up her pencil and pulled a notepad towards her.

Bee sighed and pushed her hair back from her face, hoping she wouldn’t regret what she was about to do.

“Do you remember that nurse when Raziel died?”

Dagon frowned lightly.

“The one the police interviewed that you and Hastur couldn’t get near?”

“Yeah,” confirmed Bee, “that one.”

Dagon’s frown deepened.

“I thought you ruled her out,” Dagon said.

Bee bit her lip, guiltily. She hadn’t told anyone that Raziel had given the list of names to Violet. Bee knew she should have followed protocol; that she should have brought Violet in for interrogation, but she’d chosen instead to protect her. She had never in a million years thought she’d end up like this – on the cusp of falling head over heels for the nurse she believed she’d never see again.

“I just…want to make sure,” Bee replied. “No stone left unturned, if you know what I mean.”

Dagon’s eyes narrowed for a split second, but then she nodded.

“What was her name again?”

“Violet Rutherford,” said Bee, quietly.

Dagon scribbled the name down on her notebook and gave another decisive nod.

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Thanks,” Bee mumbled.

She only hoped she wasn’t making a mistake.

____

Violet had been eagerly anticipating Saturday night all week; riding the high of her night at the pictures with the fabulous Miss Bee. The film had been wonderful, but the first kiss they had shared in the corridor outside of Violet’s flat had been even more so – tentative at first, and then Beezle’s fingers had cupped Violet’s jaw and pulled her back in. Violet had lain awake for most of the night, replaying the kiss in her mind and musing on how she wanted to do it again and again and again.

At work, Irene had noticed the spring in her step and caught Violet smiling to herself and humming ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ more than once. Her friend’s eyes had narrowed in suspicion but Violet had done her best to deflect, insisting that she was just in a good mood if Irene brought it up.

It felt like Saturday night would never arrive, but when it did Violet spent most of the afternoon making sure she looked incredible. Violet had bathed with a few drops of rose oil in her water in order to make her skin soft and fragrant, and then pinned up her pre-curled hair in a similar style she’d seen on Bette Davis in a magazine. She slipped into a new dress of teal satin with a fluted skirt and a low neckline, and finished off the look with ruby red lips; draping a fox fur over her shoulders before leaving the flat and heading for Bee’s.

Violet only had to go a few tube stops, ignoring the disapproving stares from housewives at her dress and liberal application of makeup. She held her head high, walking with all of Katharine Hepburn’s gumption and feeling like a Hollywood screen siren in her own right as she walked the short distance from the tube stop to Beezle’s flat; patting her hair gently into place as she knocked on the door.

A shuffling of feet, a sliding of locks and a chain scraping, and the door opened to reveal Beezle in a white vest and dress slacks with the braces hanging at her sides. Dark eyes widened and Bee’s jaw visibly dropped as she looked Violet over from head to toe.

“Oh…wow…” Bee breathed.

Violet smiled in satisfaction, feeling like a cat that just got the cream. This was the reaction she’d been hoping for.

“You like?” she asked, playfully; dipping into a brief curtsey. “I did my hair like Bette Davis!”

“Uh…yeah,” Bee stammered, still staring. “You…look better than Bette Davis.”

Violet beamed at her.

“Thank you.”

She stood, swaying gently in the door was as she patiently waited for Beezle to get a grip on herself and invite her inside. God, but it thrilled Violet to know she could make this tough woman stumble over her words. Bee blushed and ran a hand through her black wavy hair.

“I’m…not quite finished getting dressed…” Bee mumbled.

Violet grinned.

“Just as well,” she replied, “otherwise I’d have to undress you again to take out those stitches.”

Beezle’s blush deepened, but there was a hint of a smile as she ducked her head.

“Inconvenient,” Bee said, quietly.

“Quite…” murmured Violet.

Dark eyes met hers and Bee let out a huff of laughter as she stepped aside to let Violet in.

“Come on,” said Beezle. “Let’s get the bad part over with.”

____

It wasn’t the first time somebody had come at Beezle with a sharp knife, but it was the first time she’d been completely enthralled with its wielder.

She watched as Violet scrubbed her hands clean in the sink; eyes moving from the delicate but rough skinned hands, up her bare arms and to the back of Violet’s neck where a bed of gold curls sat neatly above a strip of creamy skin. Bee had smelled that rose scent as Violet had walked past her, and she would have bet anything that she could press her nose to that bare skin at the back of Violet’s neck and breathe in that heady scent.

Beezle didn’t think she’d ever been quite as entranced by anyone in her life. All she wanted to do was reach out and pull Violet in; to bury her face in the crook of Violet’s neck and press her lips to soft creamy skin; to pull out the multitude of pins holding those curls in place and get her hands into that golden hair…

“Are you ready?” asked Violet, turning from the sink and picking up the package she’d left the week before of dressings and scalpel.

Bee broke from her reverie and silently nodded, lying down on her bed and pulling up her vest to expose her side. She shivered as Violet’s fingers brushed over newly knitted pink skin and bit her lip hard to stop any wistful sounds that might escape her.

“This has healed remarkably well,” Violet continued as she gently palpated that tissue around the scar.

“Yeah?” Bee managed to croak.

“You’ve been taking very good care of it,” Violet replied, sounding impressed. “Now…this might pinch a bit…”

It was a peculiar feeling, having stitches taken out. Violet was obviously an expert at it, cutting the silk sutures quickly and deftly, but there was nothing that could be done for the strange sensation caused by that thread being pulled through partially healed skin. Beezle dug her teeth into her bottom lip, watching Violet’s brow furrow in concentration as she worked. It was almost like she was back on that examination table at the London Hospital, staring into the face of pure beauty and feeling no pain.

“There,” said Violet softly as the final suture pulled free. “All done.”

She ran a gentle hand over Beezle’s hair and Bee felt her eyelids flutter closed at the touch, silently cursing her body’s betrayal.

“Thanks,” she managed.

Violet smiled at her, and Bee was honestly grateful for the respite as Violet got up to clear away the medical equipment and wash her hands again. Beezle stole a look at her side, noting the long pink-edge scar that now marred her skin. It wasn’t the first scar she’d received in the line of duty and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

Sighing, Bee took the opportunity to finish getting ready, tucking her vest into her slacks and shrugging on a crisp white shirt. A dark red tie and a tailored waistcoat finished off her look, and Beezle teased a little pomade into her dark waves before straightening and turning back to Violet who was waiting patiently with her fox fur draped back around her shoulders.

“I warn you again,” Beezle said as she grabbed her jacket, “I really don’t know how to dance.”

Violet smiled at her, so beautiful that it made Bee feel slightly breathless.

“That’s alright,” she said gently as she extended her arm and took Bee’s hand in her own. “We have all night for me to teach you.”

____

Lesbian clubs in London were a thing one heard about by word of mouth – popping up in one place this weekend, only to be somewhere else by the next; never staying in one place long enough to be shut down by the police.

The Gateways had emerged as a response to the largely male dominion of bars and pubs where women were not allowed, and the affluent area known for the avant garde had made the private club tolerable to the residents. It combined a dance hall with a bar and was popular as a ‘ladies’ space, not necessarily for lesbians but a Saturday night haven for them nonetheless.

Violet loved the freedom that the club awarded her. She could drink and she could dance and she could talk with other women, and nobody would judge her for it. The women who frequented the club were mostly like her – some feminine in dresses and makeup, and others were more masculine in their appearance, wearing men’s suits with their hair slicked back.

Most of the suited women were ‘weekend butches’ - women who didn’t have the luxury of dressing how they wished during the week due to jobs that forced them into more feminine attire. Their weekend suits tended to be a little baggy or ill-fitted, unlike Bee’s clothes that fit her like a glove.

Violet loved that about Bee - that she was a woman doing a tough job in what was undoubtedly a ‘man’s world’, and that she didn’t give a shit about how society expected her to be. She was evidently comfortable with herself and took every bit as much pride in the way she dressed as Violet did.  Bee was easily the most attractive and most interesting woman in the room as far as Violet was concerned, and she loved the way heads turned as they entered together and headed straight for the bar.

“What are you drinking?” Violet asked, raising her voice to be heard over the loud music played by the live band.

“Scotch, if they have it,” replied Bee.

Violet grinned and ordered two with a glass of water, handing over her money to the bartender. When she turned back, Bee was gazing wide-eyed around the room, watching the dancers in the middle of the floor.

“I’d heard of this place,” she said as Violet passed her a glass of whisky, “but I’ve never been.”

Violet took a thoughtful sip from her own glass.

“Why not?”

Beezle sighed and leaned back, resting her elbow on the bar.

“I don’t know,” Bee admitted. “I suppose I’ve just never really had the time for it.”

“All work and no play?” mused Violet.

Bee gave her a small, lopsided smile.

“Something like that.”

Violet reached out, covering Beezle’s hand gently with her own and leaned in close to her ear.

“I’m glad you agreed to come here with me,” Violet said.

She loved the way that Beezle blushed and ducked her head to hide her smile, glancing shyly at Violet from the corner of her eye. Violet’s heart beat faster as Bee’s fingers slowly entwined with her own.

“I wasn’t lying,” Bee insisted again, “I’m not good at this – I’ll most likely step on your toes.”

Violet chuckled and squeezed Bee’s hand gently.

“I don’t care,” she replied, happily.

And honestly, Violet didn’t care one jot if Bee could dance or not. The fact that she was here at all proved to Violet that Bee liked her – folk didn’t go so wildly out of their comfort zone for people they had lukewarm feelings for, and the realisation made Violet giddy.

They stood watching the couples dance for a while, sipping their drinks as the music switched from loud and energetic to slow and romantic, and then back again. Bee almost looked afraid of the fast songs and the footwork involved, and Violet couldn’t help but laugh.

“Come on,” she said, reaching out to gently adjust the lapel on Bee’s jacket, “finish your drink and I’ll teach you a few steps.”

Bee looked nervous as she polished off the rest of her Scotch in one gulp and allowed Violet to lead her out to the edge of the dance floor, dark eyes flickering from Violet to the other dancers and back again.

“I’m going to teach you the foxtrot,” Violet explained, smiling.

Beezle looked doubtful, clinging onto Violet’s hand.

“That sounds energetic.”

“It’s not,” laughed Violet. “It’s four steps – very simple, I promise. Here…” Carefully, Violet placed Bee’s free hand on her shoulder and put her own just under Bee’s shoulder blade. “I’ll lead for the first few dances, so you’ll be stepping backwards – two long steps, short side-step, and feet together.”

Violet firmly grasped Bee’s hand and leaned against her into the first step, guiding Bee backwards as she moved forward. As expected, Bee’s dark eyes were solidly fixed on their feet for the first few minutes.

“See?” encouraged Violet, gently.

Bee glanced up, giving her a small smile and a huff of laughter.

“You’re right,” she agreed, “it’s not so bad.”

The opening bars of ‘Midnight, the Stars, and You’ by Al Bowlly began to play, lively but slow enough and perfect for foxtrot. Ever so softly, Violet disentangled their hands and slipped a finger beneath Bee’s chin to tilt her head up. Deep brown eyes rose from the floor to look at Violet, a light flush spreading across Bee’s cheeks as their eyes met.

“You don’t have to keep looking at your feet,” Violet said, softly. “You’re really doing very well.”

“I still feel like I’m going to step on your toes,” Bee replied. 

Violet giggled and Bee glanced away with a small smile as Al Bowlly ended and ‘Cheek to Cheek’ by Fred Astaire started up. Violet sighed contentedly.

“Oh, I remember this one,” she mused. “Did you ever watch this film – ‘Top Hat’?”

Looking back up, Bee shook her head.

“No,” she replied, “It’s not really my kind of story – all the singing and dancing and romance subplot.”

Violet smiled. She’d rather enjoyed ‘Top Hat’ but it didn’t really have much of an engaging plot beyond all the musical numbers. Fred and Ginger were effortless and elegant in their dancing, and both held the screen beautifully but if dancing didn’t interest you then there wasn’t much going for it.

“What is your kind of story?” Violet asked.

Beezle frowned for a second and then gave a slight shrug, almost losing her step.

“Uh…I don’t know,” Bee responded, “Maybe ‘Satan Met a Lady’, or ‘The Thin Man’. ‘The 39 Steps’ was good.”

“A mystery lover!” Violet exclaimed, “of course – all those mystery pulps you have!”

Bee blushed slightly and ducked her head. Violet remembered the stack of pulp novels and magazines on the coffee table in Bee’s flat – it made sense that a spy would lean towards mystery stories…even spicy ones.

“Yeah,” Bee mumbled.

“I suppose…OW!” Violet began and then yelped in shock at a sharp pain in her right foot.

Immediately, Bee stopped and almost leapt back from her.

“Shit,” Bee cursed, “I’m so sorry – I told you I would stand on your toes.”

“No, Its alright,” Violet reassured her, hanging onto Beezle’s arm as she reached down to gingerly rub her toes. “That was my fault – I think we were going too fast.”

Distracted by their conversation and the change of song, Violet was almost sure she’d sped up. Bee had been dancing so well that Violet had just about forgotten that she was a beginner. Bee bit her lip, guiltily.

“Possibly,” muttered Bee. “I did say I was terrible at this.”

Violet put her foot back down on the ground and reached for Bee’s hand, gently pulling her back in.

“We can stop if you want,” Violet said quietly, “or maybe…just shuffle for a bit?”

Bee looked at her; considering the options.

“Shuffling sounds good.”

Violet smiled as she stepped closer, adjusting her stance so that they really were dancing cheek-to-cheek like Fred and Ginger – Beezle’s hand resting on her waist; Violet’s hand on Bee’s shoulder. The other dancers faded into the background, it felt like it was just the two of them on the dance floor, while the voice of Anne Shelton carried them away from reality with ‘Lili Marlene’.

Goosebumps rose on her arms, as she felt Bee's breath ghost over her cheek; a little faster than it should have been for the speed they were dancing. Violet could feel the warmth of Bee’s body as it pressed against hers, radiating through the thin satin of Violet’s dress; the softness of Beezle's skin underneath her fingers as she toyed with the starched collar of Bee’s shirt and brushed her thumb lightly over the back of her neck.

Violet desperately to feel more of it underneath her fingers; to kiss it, pressing her lips to that small strip of bare skin and trace a line across Bee’s throat and down, underneath her white shirt and discover all the delights that lay beneath.

She hadn’t felt this way in such a long time – this kind of intimacy; her heart longing to get to know this astonishing woman in every way possible. And Violet dared to hope that Beezle felt the same about her.

Bee shifted, dark waves brushing against Violet’s cheek. It felt like a dream as they looked at each other, heads slowly turning as they swayed gently to the music. For Violet it was just them, slowly moving together, eyes locked. She could have drowned in those dark eyes, nearly black in the low light of the club; like Bee was looking right into her soul, laying her bare, and it made her delightfully breathless.

Soft lips brushed against hers, so uncertain and delicate that it left Violet aching for more. So far it had always been Violet making the first move – asking Bee out; taking her hand; kissing her in the dimly lit corridor outside of her flat – and now Bee had kissed  _ her _ first. Violet’s heart leapt for joy as Bee leaned back in and kissed her again, still soft and so tender; the hand at Violet’s waist pulling her closer.

It lasted only a few seconds, but they were both breathing hard when they drew back.

“Do you want to get out of here?” whispered Violet.

Bee smiled as her nose softly bumped against Violet’s.

“More than anything,” she replied.

____

The night air was warm as they dashed hand in hand out of the Gateways and across the quiet Bayswater Road, into the Italian Gardens. It was mostly dark at this time of night – only the faint pink and orange glow of the setting sun tinting the purple of the evening sky – but Bee didn’t notice any of it as Violet pulled her past water features and foliage, their fingers entwined.

They halted at the edge of The Long Water, laughing breathlessly as they reached for each other again. Violet’s lips were soft; their kiss, breathless and Bee wanted nothing more but to get her hands into that golden hair, to pull those pins free and let Violet’s hair cascade over her shoulders. Instead she had to content herself with the the loose tendrils that fell about Violet’s face; twisting the gold strands gently around her finger as Violet wrapped her arms around Bee’s neck.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” Beezle found herself admitting. “From the minute I opened the front door, all I’ve wanted to do was kiss you.”

Violet’s mouth curled up into a smile as she leaned forward and pressed another soft kiss to Bee’s lips.

“I’m very glad you did,” whispered Violet.

Oh, and it was so easy to kiss Violet; to lose herself in the sweet heady rose scent of her perfume and those delicate hands that pulled Bee closer by the lapels of her jacket; that slipped up and around her neck and into the back of her hair. Bee hadn’t felt like this about anybody in…well, she wasn’t sure she ever had. She just knew that right now, Violet was the only woman she wanted.

They sank down onto a stone bench as the sun finally disappeared over Hyde Park, their kisses growing long and languid. In this light, with her short hair and her suit, Bee could easily have been mistaken for male by any passers-by that could be taking an evening walk. They could kiss and they could touch, and nobody would ever know unless they got close enough.

Violet felt so good under Bee’s hands; soft curves under tight satin; warm against the skin of her palms. They were gasping as they stopped to draw breath, Violet’s forehead resting against Bee’s.

“Come home with me,” said Violet, breathlessly, “Please.”

God, but Bee wanted to. She wanted to hold Violet’s body against her own; wanted to map those curves with her mouth and she wanted Violet’s hands on  _ her _ …but there was still that voice in Bee’s head – the one that told her  _ not yet _ .

“Not tonight,” Bee whispered.

Almost immediately, she could sense Violet’s disappointment and Bee hated herself for it.

“Oh…”

Bee could feel Violet begin to pull away and Beezle reached for her again.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, Violet…because I want to. I really  _ really _ want to, it’s just that…”

“Too much, too soon?” Violet interjected, softly.

Taking a deep breath, Bee nodded. It wasn’t…but she was happy to let Violet believe that. It was as good an excuse as any, even if it wasn’t entirely accurate.

“I want to,” Bee reassured her, “and I will – I promise.”

“But not tonight,” Violet repeated.

Bee nodded again and reached up to push the loose golden tendrils of hair back from Violet’s face and Violet leaned into her touch; her fierce green eyes fluttering closed. Beezle felt like her heart would burst.

“It’s okay, Ellie,” murmured Violet as she leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Bee’s lips, “I can wait until you’re ready…”

_ Ellie _ …

Nobody had ever called Bee that – not her family, not her previous girlfriends – but oh, she liked the sound of it from Violet’s lips. She wanted to hear it whispered in her ear in the middle of the night; wanted the name kissed into her skin. But first, Bee just needed to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was all real.

Tenderly, she kissed Violet once more.

“Come on,” Bee whispered, “let me find you a cab.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. 
> 
> This chapter was SUCH a bitch. I had a whole thing that played out cinematically and beautifully in my head, but would it do down on the page? Would it fuck. I had to throw out EVERYTHING and do something completely different, so thak you so much to the wonderful people who supported me through this crisis, and listened to me bitch, and gave me suggestions and advice. You know who you are and I wouldn't have made it without you. 
> 
> On another note, Al Bowlly makes a reappearance! Yay for Al! I can't remember if I used 'Midnight, the Stars, and You' in E&P but it's perfect to foxtrot to, so here it is, with Fred Astaire's 'Cheek to Cheek', and also 'Lili Marlene' sung by Anne Shelton, whose version wasn't actually recorded for another couple of years, but gives off such HUGE lesbian vibes that I had to include it.


	7. Chapter 7

Since Raziel’s death, Division H had been investigating the names of suspected Fifth Columnists on the list. There were a few that were easy to find – an actress; a prominent member of parliament; the mistress of an Earl. Between them, the Division had dug up enough blackmail information on all of these suspects, and Hastur and Ligur had a good handle on their daily routines – the Division knew where these people were and how to get to them if needed.

It was the other names on the list that caused Beezle the most concern. For the most part they were nobodies – just ordinary names of ordinary people, and Beezle didn’t know who they were or where to go about finding them. These people were the most dangerous. Bee could dig up dirt on the famous names and they could be easy to control; could possibly even be turned into double agents for the security service…but how could she possibly go about thwarting a threat to bring the country down from the inside if she didn’t know her enemy?

Dagon was truly the most valuable asset on Bee’s team at this point – she could find anything and anyone as long as they left a paper trail, but even Dagon took time to dig things up. She was pulling long hours just to get something the Division could use; could investigate.

The closest they’d got to anything was the man who’d killed Raziel and then stabbed Beezle as he’d tried to escape their custody. Bee didn’t even know what kind of information they would have learned if they’d apprehended him. The people on that list were sleeper agents – sympathetic to Hitler and his cause; placed in the civil service and various other jobs that could help bring the country to its knees and help the enemy seize power. None of them were supposed to know each other for their own protection.

Ligur had hit on a stroke of luck following up a lead on a banker that Dagon had unearthed. His name was Arthur Kelso and he seemed perfectly ordinary – married with three children and a steady job at the bank, he was the type of person one wouldn’t look at twice if they walked down the street. He hadn’t been so tough to find, what with Kelso being rather uncommon a name, even in London.

Currently, he was sitting in a café and eating a lunch of sausages and fried potatoes whilst reading the newspaper. Beezle sat on the other side of the café with Ligur, both of them cradling untouched cups of steaming tea and watching their quarry.

“We’re going to play this one carefully, alright?” Bee said quietly.

Ligur raised an eyebrow.

“Not to point fingers here, boss,” he replied, “but if I remember rightly, last time it was you who…”

“Yes, alright,” muttered Bee. “I won’t be running ahead and leaving you for dust this time. All I’m saying is, we need to tread lightly. This one isn’t a murderer – he’s a husband and a father of three, even if he is a bloody Nazi. This is the first real lead we’ve had, and I want him brought in safely and quietly.”

“Yes, boss,” Ligur murmured.

Hastur was waiting in a grey Vauxhall across the street, waiting for Beezle’s signal. They had agreed that Hastur would follow Kelso in the car as Beezle and Ligur went on foot, in case the suspect caught on and tried to flee. They were on Old Broad Street, just down the road from the Royal Exchange where Kelso worked; their plan being to catch him and bundle him into the grey Vauxhall before he reached his destination.

It was risky – the district was busy at this time of day, but there would be an opportunity by Threadneedle Walk where it was quieter and more obscured, and this was where they planned to lift Kelso.

Bee watched as the man finished off his last bite of sausage, washing it down with the remainder of his tea before dabbing delicately at the corner of his mouth. Kelso left an assortment of coins on the table and left; Bee’s dark eyes following every move.

“Let’s go,” she muttered to Ligur.

Leaving their full cups of now-cold tea, Bee left a few coins of her own on their table as they hastened after their suspect; giving a nod to Hastur in the car. Ligur crossed the street, following on the other side of the road in case Kelso decided to cross over, and Beezle trailed Kelso from behind. It wasn’t a long walk back to the banking district and Bee honestly believed they were going to pull this off until Kelso glanced behind him.

His eyes met hers and Beezle saw him frown before his head turned back. For a moment, Bee thought he’d shrugged it off but then Kelso spotted Ligur who was matching pace and looking towards him from the other side of the road. Kelso sped up and Bee cursed under her breath – they were going to have to corner him and grab him as soon as possible.

She signalled to Ligur to join her, but he chose the worst time to cross the road – the exact moment Kelso looked back at him. Their suspect fled and immediately Hastur’s grey Vauxhall sped up to intercept Kelso at the intersection. Confident that she had backup this time, Bee broke into a run and chased Kelso down the street, determined not to let this one get away.

Kelso shot a frightened glance over his shoulder again just as he stepped off the pavement. He never saw the oncoming tram.

“NO!”

It was like it happened in slow motion – Kelso’s eyes meeting hers just as the tram hit; shock registering on his face a split second before he disappeared beneath it; the high pitched screech of metal upon metal as the tram driver hit the emergency brake.

Bee was the first person to reach the accident; skidding to a stop and dropping to her knees. Kelso was still conscious; his face ghostly white and eyes wide. He wasn’t screaming even though he should have been in agony – his legs were mangled beneath the tram trolley; blood everywhere. Bee seized his hand.

“You bloody idiot,” she hissed. “What the fuck did you run for?”

She could hear Ligur yelling behind her for somebody to fetch an ambulance, and Hastur ordering people off the tram while the driver sobbed uncontrollably. Kelso croaked in response; wild eyes never leaving hers.

Her first lead in a month and it was slipping through her fingers as blood trickled from the side of Kelso’s mouth. There had always been a risk of him running, but Bee had been prepared for it this time. They would have snatched him and brought him back for questioning; possibly found out his handler and how he might be contacted if the Nazis made their move. Now, she wouldn’t get a thing.

“You’re not dying, do you understand me?” Bee said to him. “I’m not done with you yet.”

____

From the second the telephone rang, the nurses of the London Hospital’s emergency department had been on high alert. They were well trained – everyone knew their place; knew what they needed to do at the best trauma hospital in the country. Violet’s heart was racing in anticipation as the doors burst open and the ambulance drivers wheeled in their patient; nurses surging forward.

“What do we have?” asked Dr Jennings as he came running across to join Violet and her two probationers.

“Forty-eight year old man went under a tram, doctor,” replied one of the ambulance drivers as the gurney came to a halt.

This wasn’t Violet’s first tram accident – she knew just how horrific the injuries could be and this one didn’t seem any different. The man’s face was ghostly-white; his eyes open but glazed over as his head lolled on the gurney. One look at his lower body told Violet all she needed to know – the man’s legs were shattered beyond repair with bone protruding through the skin in various places; his clothes drenched in blood. It was a miracle he’d made it to the hospital alive, and it would be another one if he lasted another thirty minutes.

She exchanged a knowing glance with the doctor, who sighed heavily.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Nurse Rutherford, please take him to treatment room two…do what you can.” Dr Jennings turned to the ambulance driver. “Is there anything else we need to know?”

“Yeah,” the driver said, “the coppers are here.”

He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder and Violet glanced behind him. Her stomach dropped like a stone as her eyes locked with familiar pools of deepest, darkest brown.

_ Ellie _ …

Suddenly, Violet was very aware that this was not just an ordinary tram accident. She was party to knowledge that her colleagues were not – that the coppers were actually Intelligence service agents; that they were currently investigating potential sleeper agents of Germany’s Nazi regime; and that the man bleeding on the gurney was most likely one of the names from the list Raziel had passed to Violet as he died.

More to the point, the last time Violet had seen Eleanor Beezle, she’d been kissing her goodnight at the corner of Hyde Park; giddy and breathless at her touch and the feel of Bee’s lips against her own. Now her heart beat fast for an entirely different reason as Bee stared at her and she stared right back.

Beside her, Dr Jennings cursed and the gurney started to move, spurring Violet to move with it.

“Keep them out of the room,” he muttered, inclining his head towards Beezle and her colleagues.

At that, Bee stepped forward and glowered ferociously at Jennings.

“Not a chance,” Bee growled. “This man is a suspect and I’m not letting him out of my sight, do you hear?”

Whilst Violet was aware that Bee’s bark was far worse than her bite, Jennings was not and he visibly cowed at the small, fierce-looking woman glowering at him over the gurney.

“One of you,” said Violet, taking charge. “One of you can come into the treatment room, but not all of you.”

Beezle’s dark eyes turned on her again, her angry expression melting away as she nodded in acquiescence. Violet didn’t even wait to see which intelligence agent followed them as she trotted alongside the gurney, but from the way the other two deferred to her, she knew it would be Bee.

Violet drew a deep breath as they reached the treatment room, focussing on her job. Their patient was in a bad way, his breathing shallow. Violet turned to her two probationers.

“I need his pulse taken and his blood pressure, please,” she told them, pleased that they immediately jumped into their jobs.

Dr Jennings gently lifted the patient’s eyelids.

“Do you know his name?” he asked, looking to where Beezle was standing in the corner.

Violet glanced at her. Bee looked concerned, gnawing on her thumbnail as she watched every move Dr Jennings made.

“Arthur Kelso,” Bee muttered.

He looked very ordinary in his sensible grey suit and his thinning hair – nothing at all like what Violet expected a Nazi sympathiser to look like.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Violet asked her, gently.

Bee looked at her.

“He just…didn’t look. He was too busy trying to get away that he just stepped out in front of the tram. He never even knew it was there until it hit him.”

Violet nodded and turned back to her probationers who were wearing identical expressions of concern.

“Pulse is thready, nurse…”

“…and his blood pressure is…”

“Low,” Violet finished, quietly.

All four of the medical professionals shared a knowing glance – Arthur Kelso had lost too much blood; his body was in shock and he was dying quickly.

“Make him comfortable, Nurse Rutherford,” Jennings sighed, straightening.

In her corner, Bee frowned and stepped forward.

“What does that mean?” she asked. “Are you not taking him to surgery?”

“There’s no point,” replied Jennings in a clipped tone. “He’ll be dead before we get him to the operating theatre, and if by some miracle he’s not, then he’ll never survive the anaesthesia.”

Bee looked wildly from Jennings to Violet; panic in her eyes.

“No,” she protested. “No, he can’t die. He’s not allowed to die! You need to do something!”

Jennings opened his mouth again but Violet stepped in before he could speak, her fingertips lightly brushing the sleeve of Beezle’s jacket.

“We’re doing the only thing we can,” Violet told her, softly. “He’s too far gone.”

Bee stared at her in disbelief, shrugging off Violet’s touch as she backed away towards the door.

“You people are fucking unbelievable!” Bee growled, kicking out at a trauma trolley before turning and storming from the room.

One of the probationers squeaked in shock but Violet ignored her, trusting in her students’ capabilities as she went after Bee, almost running to catch up. Violet reached out, her fingers closing around Bee’s upper arm as she steered a protesting Beezle towards the linen closet. Violet opened the door and pushed Bee through it, slamming the door behind them.

Bee didn’t look at her, reaching instead for the stack of neatly folded white pillowcases in the shelf at her eye level and throwing them to the floor with a growl of frustration. Violet carefully folded her arms across her chest and calmly watched as Bee pulled down stack after stack of fresh linen in rage. At least in here, Beezle could get it out of her system and nothing would be damaged. A few rumpled bed sheets were of little concern.

“Stupid…fucking…bastard…” gritted Bee as she threw down a pile of red woollen blankets. “Fucking idiot…”

The small closet looked like it had been hit by a tornado, but Violet’s attention was on Beezle. Violet could see how upset she was and it damn near broke her heart to watch her. Bee reached for another stack of linen and Violet finally stepped forward, reaching out and pulling Bee towards her and into a hug.

She felt Beezle freeze in her arms and then, suddenly, she went limp.

“I’m sorry,” Violet whispered into soft dark waves. “I’m so sorry. There was nothing we could do…”

Violet felt slim arms wind around her waist; felt warm breath on her skin as Bee turned her face into the side of Violet’s neck.

“He was my only lead,” Bee mumbled. “All these months and I thought that finally…”

Bee trailed off and sniffed into Violet’s shoulder. Gently, Violet pressed a small kiss into Bee’s black hair and held her tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Violet repeated.

It was a far cry from the last time Violet had held Bee in her arms, surrounded by crumpled bed linen instead of dancing couples and romantic music, but Violet didn’t let her go for a long while – until Bee’s shoulders stopped shaking and her breathing returned to normal. When Bee finally pulled back, her cheeks were damp.

“Are you alright?” Violet asked her, digging into her uniform dress pocket for a clean handkerchief.

Bee sniffed and swiped at the tears with the back of her hand.

“Yeah,” she rasped, “I just…I though we had something when we discovered him and now…it’s like all that hard work over the past few months has been for nothing. We’re right back where we started.

Bee reluctantly accepted Violet’s handkerchief with a sheepish smile.

“You’ll get there again,” Violet said, softly, “I know you will…but I have to get back to my patient now, alright?”

Beezle inhaled deeply through her nose.

“Okay,” she replied. “You go – I’m fine.”

Violet smiled at her, leaned forward, and kissed Bee very softly on the cheek.

“I’ll see you later,” whispered Violet.

She sighed as she left Bee to collect herself and walked back to the treatment room. The probationers were going to have a fun afternoon re-folding all those bed sheets and pillowcases, and Sister would likely chew Violet out for letting Beezle wreck the place…but right now, Violet’s priority was her patient. Nazi sympathiser or not, Violet wasn’t going to let Arthur Kelso die alone.

____

The whole of Division H were deflated and subdued as they re-entered their basement Whitehall office; Dagon looking up from her paperwork expectantly. Hastur shook his head.

“We lost him,” he muttered.

Dagon looked crestfallen.

“He got away?”

“In a manner of speaking,” sighed Beezle as she shrugged off her jacket and collapsed in her chair.

“He died,” Ligur said, bluntly.

Dagon’s expression swiftly turned to horror.

“Satan preserve us, what happened?”

Bee mostly left Hastur and Ligur to recount the tale to Dagon while she put on a pot of much-needed coffee. She felt drained; too defeated to even be angry anymore and besides, her mind kept coming back to Violet. Bee had felt so frustratingly helpless when the doctor told her there was no saving Kelso. It almost felt like there were otherworldly forces working against her; determined to make her fail and prevent Division H from finding a way to fight their enemy.

And then there had been Violet – cool and calm; unflinching at Bee’s rage. Bee should have been horrified, or at the very least uncomfortable about anyone witnessing her minor meltdown but…when Violet reached out and wrapped her arms around Bee’s body, it was like all of her anger at the situation melted away. She had let tears fall and hadn’t minded that Violet saw them. There had been no judgement and no pity – only comfort and understanding that Bee had soaked up like a sponge.

Sighing, Bee took a sip of hot coffee and wished she had some whisky to put in it.

“So, that’s it,” said Dagon, dully. “We’re back to the start again.”

“Not today,” Bee quietly replied. “We’ve all had a Hell of a day and I think everybody needs to just go home. Take a bath…have a drink – whatever you do to relax. We’ll come back to this with fresh eyes in the morning.”

Reluctantly, the Division agreed and began to pack up for the day as Bee sank lower in her chair, cradling her coffee cup. She appreciated the loyalty of her people and their willingness to follow her orders, but Beezle was painfully aware that she was still a woman in a man’s job and if she had any more fuck-ups like today, Morningstar would likely have her replaced as Division Chief. Bee had too much to prove; too much resting on her competence as a leader – she couldn’t afford to lose another suspect.

“Boss?”

Bee looked up from her coffee to find Dagon watching her with curious pale eyes; a file clutched close to her chest.

“Yeah?” Bee replied, straightening in her seat.

Dagon held out the file.

“I finished the background check on that nurse you asked about,” Dagon said.

Bee’s heart almost stopped as she looked from Dagon to the file, and then reached out hesitantly to take it.

“And?” she asked, feeling breathless.

“All clear,” Dagon replied with a small smile.

Beezle’s heart hammered against her ribcage so loudly she was sure Dagon would hear it. She willed her hand not to shake as she placed the file carefully on her desk, swallowing hard.

“Good,” Bee muttered as levelly as she could manage. “That’s one less person to worry about.”

Dagon raised a pale eyebrow before nodding in agreement. Beezle watched as Dagon grabbed her purse and hat from the coat stand by the door, exchanging a brief farewell. The door was barely closed before Bee seized the file and tore it open.

She’d hated herself for asking Dagon to look into Violet, but with the ferocity of her growing feelings towards the pretty nurse, Bee had to make sure it was real. Violet had captivated her right from the beginning and it scared Bee a little to feel so strongly about somebody like this. She wasn’t good at opening up, but around Violet she  _ wanted _ to – she had loved the evenings they’d spent together, talking about literature and politics, and laughing together. It was like Violet was unlocking a whole new part of Bee that she’d never known existed within herself and God help her, but Bee wanted to explore that so badly.

Beezle had always believed relationships to be distracting and she’d done her best to avoid them in her life…but now she knew for certain that Violet was genuine; that the evenings spent together and the touches and the kisses were all real. She could have something good if she just…let herself be happy for once; if she didn’t hide behind her job and her own belief that she was so unlovable.

Snapping the file shut, Bee quickly stood up and grabbed her brown herringbone jacket from the coat stand; heading for the door. She knew what she needed to do.

____

Violet was always happy to come home after a hard day; back to her own little sanctuary where she could unpin her hair and unfasten her girdle; leave her uniform in a heap on the floor by the bed. It was a tiny, crappy place barely fit for habitation but it was hers and away from prying eyes. At home, Violet could be herself – lounging on her bed in her underwear, drinking gin and reading with nobody to reprimand her for it.

She was barely a chapter into H.G Wells’ ‘The War of the Worlds’ when she was disturbed by the knock on her door. At first, Violet was inclined to ignore it but at the second knock, she let out a heavy sigh and set her book aside, swinging her bare feet to the ground and padding to the door without bothering to cover up her camisole and lacy French knickers.

Bee stood on her doorstep, nervously running her fingers through her black waves. Her dark eyes widened upon seeing Violet in her underwear, but unlike the first night they’d met, Bee’s gaze lingered instead of immediately dropping to the floor.

“Hello!” Violet exclaimed in surprise.

“Hi…” Bee breathed.

Violet honestly hadn’t expected Bee to show up at her door. In truth, they hadn’t made concrete plans to see each other again after dancing on Saturday night, and seeing Bee at the hospital earlier had been largely coincidental. Even though Violet had told Beezle that she’d see her later, she didn’t necessarily mean tonight.

Beezle smiled shyly at her and Violet’s heart melted.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Violet said softly. “Not that I don’t love that you’re here – it’s just that…considering what happened today…”

Bee looked at the floor.

“Yeah,” she replied, “I…uh…just wanted to check you were alright.”

_ Oh _ , thought Violet. She knew what this was. They hadn’t known each other very long and they hadn’t spent all that much time together yet, but Violet knew enough about Eleanor Beezle to realise what the woman was doing – Bee needed to not be alone, but she was just too stubborn to admit that aloud.

“Are you coming in,” Violet asked softly, “or are you just going to spend the night on my doorstep?”

A faint blush rose to Bee’s cheeks as she nodded.

“Yeah,” Bee quietly replied, “yeah, I’m coming in…”

Violet smiled and stood aside to let her in the flat, closing the door and locking it behind them.

“Can I get you a dri…?”

Her sentence was cut off as Bee immediately reached for her hand, pulling Violet in close and sliding a hand into her loose hair. There was a split second where Violet was suddenly staring into eyes so dark and deep that she wanted to drown in them; her breath catching in her throat as Bee’s fingers curled into her hair, before the gap between them was closed.

The kiss was slow and confident; none of Bee’s prior nervousness bleeding through as her other hand snaked around Violet’s waist and drew her closer. Bee’s lips were as soft and inviting, and Violet groaned into that kiss as she wound her arms around Bee’s neck.

Oh, but this was all Violet had wanted for weeks – to finally have this gorgeous, fascinating woman in private and kissing her; touching her. Their short spell in Hyde Park the previous Saturday had only left Violet aching for more and knowing she’d have to wait for Bee to be ready for that. Perhaps she hadn’t had to wait as long as she’d thought.

Small, strong hands held Violet’s waist firmly as they kissed; slim fingers working underneath the ivory satin of her camisole to caress the skin beneath as Violet’s hands tangled in dark, silky waves. Violet lost herself in the softness of Bee’s mouth and the touch that set her soul on fire and sent the blood racing through her veins but wanting more; needing more.

With immense effort, Violet drew back, breaking their kiss and almost smiling at Bee’s whimper of protest. They were both panting hard as Violet rested her forehead gently against Bee’s; a hand resting softly on each side of her face.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Violet asked in a breathless whisper.

Bee’s dark eyes searched Violet’s face; her brow furrowing slightly.

“Do you want me to?”

Violet could have laughed.

“Oh, Ellie,” she murmured, “have I not made it abundantly clear?” Slowly, Violet leaned back in, running the tip of her nose slowly across Bee’s cheek; watching her eyelids flutter closed and feeling Bee’s breath hitch. “I want you to stay,” Violet continued. “I want to take you into my bed. I want to feel your body against mine; your hands on my skin and my mouth on yours, tracing every inch of you that I can get to. I want to fall asleep tangled up in you and wake up with you beside me in the morning so we can do it all over again.”

Bee’s fingers tightened in the cool satin of Violet’s camisole; black pupils almost swallowing the deep dark brown of her irises and her breath, hot and fast against Violet’s lips.

“I want that,” Bee replied in a cracked whisper. “I want that – I want  _ you _ .”

____

Clothes littered the floor, scattered across the short expanse from the door to Violet’s bed; ivory satin heaped with cotton slacks. They’d made very short work of removing each other’s clothing between messy kisses in a desperate attempt to get naked as quickly as possible; falling onto the cool patchwork quilt covering the bed.

It was exquisite – Bee’s body pressed flush against Violet’s; the warmth of her bare skin; the small breast that fit perfectly in Violet’s palm as she slowly kissed a line down Bee’s neck to the hollow at the base of her throat. Violet’s stomach squirmed delightedly at the soft moan she pulled from Bee’s lips as she ran her hands down that slim body; across the pink scar that was still healing, and over narrow hips.

Violet wanted to find every scar on Bee’s body and kiss them; trace them with her fingers and learn their stories. She wanted Bee’s fingers in her hair, gently guiding her to each one so that Violet could pull more of those soft, sweet gasps of pleasure from her.

Their legs tangled together; Bee’s ankle hooked over Violet’s thigh; slim fingers digging into her flesh. Violet loved it – how they couldn’t seem to get close enough; how Bee’s body rocked against her own and sent heat flooding through Violet’s body.

Violet gasped sharply as Bee’s teeth dragged gently across her bare shoulder; the sound blurring into a quiet moan as soft lips smoothed away the delicious sting. She pressed a kiss against Bee’s temple as that gorgeous mouth traced across Violet’s collarbone; her fingers tangling once more in soft, black hair.

They kissed for what felt like hours; soft moans breathed against each other’s lips; the brief brush of Bee’s tongue against hers; a gentle nip of teeth. Violet’s hands touched every part of exposed skin she could reach – smooth shoulders and sharp blades with her palms; fingertips tracing the curve of Bee’s spine; nails scratching softly across the expanse of thigh.

Violet could stare into Bee’s eyes forever, getting lost in their rich darkness. This was better than she could have imagined – slow and explorative; both of them content in this moment with just the feel of the other’s bare skin beneath their hands. For now, just having Bee in her arms like this was enough. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AW YISSS THESE LADIES ARE GETTING IT ON!!!!!
> 
> Once again, thank you for your patience and continued support of me, my fic, and my girls. Please feed my ego by leaving me a little comment 💜


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